


Trade Agreement

by dustofwarfare, ohmyfae



Series: Imperative [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Kink, M/M, Polyamory, Sub!Dimitri, dom!claude, mention of other characters, sub!felix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23453305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: “We have a custom in Almyra,” Claude says, lying through his teeth, “When we welcome a foreign king and his submissive to our court.” He canfeelHilda’s stare on the side of his head, but he knows she’ll go with it. That’s why he married her. She’s as much an innate schemer as he is.“Oh?” Dimitri asks. “What’s that?”“Well, you can of course choose not to honor it, it’s entirely up to you—I’d never presume to tell a king how to rule in his own house,” Claude says with a smile, and he notices with something like surprise and—because he’s predictable—desire when Dimitri, the king about whom they’re going to write ballads about his battle prowess—can’t meet his gaze in his own hall. Claude’s smile gets wider. “But when a ruling king, or queen, shows up without their submissive, it’s customary to allow them to borrow yours. Perhaps you would honor me by allowing me the service of yours.”“What,” says Felix, from his pillow.--------------------In which the king and queen consort of Almyra arrive in Faerghus for a diplomatic visit, and Claude learns that King Dimitri and his collared sub aren't exactly what they claim to be... much to their mutual benefit.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Claude von Riegan, Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan
Series: Imperative [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654516
Comments: 109
Kudos: 270





	1. arrival

**Author's Note:**

> A note regarding this AU: This fic and others in this 'verse are predicated on the idea there's a biological imperative to fulfill dominance/submission urges (including some sadism/masochism) and might trip some sensitivities because of it. It's not intended to be either dub-con or non-con, so it's not tagged that way, but if you're sensitive to the whole "biological need to submit/dominate" thing, keep this in mind. 
> 
> This fic is set after the events of the Azure Moon route, and is a collaboration between the delightful dustofwarfare and ohmyfae!

The king of Almyra arrives in Fhirdiad at the heels of a spring storm, just as the capital city huddles down in great drifts of snow. Chimney smoke darkens the low clouds blotting out the sun, Almyran wyverns circle for warmth in stables hastily repurposed for their arrival, and His Majesty Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd stands at the foot of his throne and twists his hands behind his back. 

King Khalid of Almyra and his queen consort, Hilda Valentine Goneril, are not exactly dressed for the weather. Hilda, Dimitri suspects, would rather die of frostbite than sacrifice her low-cut gown with its impractical sleeves, which draws attention to the swell of her biceps and the curve of her hips as she walks. The king, who Dimitri has only addressed as Khalid in formal, dictated letters, but knows better as Claude von Riegan, former leader of the Alliance, is hardly better off. His golden cape hangs off one shoulder, spotted with snow, and the robes that hang over his embroidered trousers are elaborate but too thin for a Faerghus spring. A gold earring dangles from his right ear, inlaid with emeralds, and his rings flash in the candlelight as he graciously bows his head.

Dimitri squeezes his wrist and nods faintly. Hilda pauses a moment before she eschews a curtsy halfway and bows in the Fodlan style instead. 

“Your majesty,” Dimitri says. Claude smiles, a slight, disarming smile that reminds Dimitri of the Claude who lounged about the monastery, befriending cats in the courtyard, and Dimitri has to catch his breath before he remembers what he meant to say. He stumbles through the words of a greeting in Almyran— _remember your tones, Dimitri—_ and stiffens as Claude’s brows quirk dangerously.

This would be easier, he supposes, if he weren’t perpetually at a disadvantage in these matters. Claude and Hilda, like most of the ruling council in Dimitri’s father’s time, are clearly dominants, perfectly equipped to handle the back-and-forth, complex web of noble life. A man who can lower the timbre of his voice and bring half the submissives in the room to their knees would have little difficulty negotiating trade agreements with countries that were bitter rivals just a few years before, but Dimitri, who has spent most of his life training himself to project the veneer of a genteel, disinterested dom, has to struggle just to look Claude in the eyes. He does, because he has to, and Claude’s eyes narrow just enough that Dimitri shifts under his heavy cloak.

Claude says something in Almyran, too quick for Dimitri to catch more than a few pleasantries and an article or two, but Felix, standing just a few feet away at Dimitri’s left, stifles a cough. Dimitri catches his eye, and Felix’s cheeks color slightly. 

Dedue, on Dimitri’s other side, says nothing, even though Dimitri knows he studied language in the monastery. Damn. There goes what advantage he could muster, then.

“Good to see you again, Dimitri,” Claude says, breaking from protocol to stride across the space between them. His arms open wide—he always was expressive—and he pulls Dimitri into a rough embrace. Dimitri wrenches his hands apart to clap him on the back. “We almost didn’t make it. Your glorious spring thaw had us on what’s left of our toes for half the trip. You sure you don’t want to move this city somewhere a little less…” He waves a hand. “Frozen solid?”

“We wouldn’t dare,” Dimitri says, and Claude catches him again with another bright smile. “We’re too close to the hot springs, here. The people would revolt.”

Hilda approaches Dimitri, one hand raised imperiously, and Dimitri automatically takes it before he can stop himself. He can see Felix grimace out of the corner of his eye, but he bows his head and kisses Hilda’s fingertips anyways. He can’t quite meet her eyes, and glances at Claude instead, who is watching him sharply. He straightens a little too quickly, and Hilda withdraws her hand.

“Allow me to reintroduce my wife,” Claude says. “Hilda, pearl of my heart, ocean of des—“

“We’ve met,” Hilda says, breezing past Claude with a hush of lace on marble. “Did you say there were hot springs?”

“Just out of town,” Dimitri says, and a small part of him rails against his defenses as Hilda’s smile fades. It’s in his nature to please, to see others settled comfortably, and while the business of serving his country can accommodate that to an extent, he rushes to fill the silence. “Of course, we have heated baths in your suites. They’re in the royal wing, if you would like me to accompany—“

“Your majesty.” Felix, who only uses titles in public or when Dimitri is letting his nature get the best of him, touches the soft lining of his collar with the tips of his fingers. Claude’s gaze slides to the collar, and Felix swallows imperceptibly. “The steward.”

“Oh, yes.” Dimitri smiles. “We have a steward for that. Thank you, pet, I do keep forgetting.”

Felix gives him a withering look, and Dimitri suppresses a laugh. Felix isn’t one for endearments—Not unless he’s too far under to care—and for someone who’s supposed to play the part of Dimitri’s collared submissive, he’s truly a horrible actor. Dimitri trails a line down his jaw with his fingers, and Felix rolls his eyes. 

“Go fetch him for me, will you?” Dimitri asks. He keeps his voice low. It’s easier to hide the lack of natural dominance this way, and it’s a useful reminder of Felix’s role in this arrangement.

Felix hesitates long enough that Dedue shifts uncomfortably, then sighs and turns on his heel.

“Well,” Claude says, in a voice thick with amusement. He props his hands on his hips and watches Felix stalk across the throne room, dragging his lower lip through his teeth. “He’s certainly a handful.”

“Don’t give him any ideas,” Dimitri says, forcing a laugh. “This is practically good behavior.”

Claude whistles low. “Really? Well, Dimitri, who would’ve known. I guess you’re just a man who appreciates a challenge.”

Dimitri, who can’t seem to drag his gaze from Claude’s mouth long enough to form a coherent sentence, swallows an ironic laugh. “Oh, yes, your majesty. More than you know.” 

***

It’s been years since Claude’s been to Fodlan, and he can honestly say he’s forgotten a few things about the place. One, that the weather was atrocious—why is it _snowing_ in the _spring_ —and two, that their idea of “feasts” are not quite the same as the ones back in Almyra. 

They’re inside, which he supposes is a good thing if he wanted his wife to attend instead of hiding under the admittedly comfortable mountain of furs on their bed. But they’re also a lot more sedate than he’s used to, with a lot of polite nodding and Significant Looks and people politely asking him the same question four times in a row. 

But it’s not bad to be here, not really. It’s good to see Dimitri again, for one; he’s taken on the mantle of king well, and while the eyepatch and longer hair give him sort of a wild, unkempt look...it works for him. It certainly works for Faerghus, which feels—despite the unification—still half-wild itself. 

There are others at the table that he recognizes, but only a few Claude remembers from school with any sense of familiarity. There’s Dedue, serious and unsmiling and gentle as ever, and next to him sits Ashe, wearing what Claude assumes is Dedue’s collar and asking Hilda about their old housemates. He remembers Ashe was always friendly with his house; he was a commoner, and the Golden Deer always _were_ a little less intense than the Lions or the Eagles. 

And then there’s Felix, wearing Dimitri’s collar. That isn’t entirely a surprise, either—Claude remembers well enough how they were at school, antagonistic in a way that spoke more of underlying personal issues than, say, quibbles about leadership or policy. 

But there’s something nagging Claude about that little incident in the throne room, earlier, and he can’t put his finger on what it was. Maybe it was the way Dimitri offered to show them their rooms like a steward; maybe it was the way Felix hesitated when Dimitri gave him a command.

“I keep wondering where the acrobats and the aerialists are,” Hilda says, sipping a drink out of a silver goblet etched with the Blaiddyd crest. “Almyran feasts have totally spoiled me.” 

Claude has to smile. “Maybe we should have brought them with us, but I don’t know if they could have performed if their fingers are frozen from the cold.” It’s even cold in the banquet hall, despite the roaring fire in the hearth across the room. 

“Dimitri couldn’t have even paraded those small horses around, dressed up all cute?” Hilda says, and snickers. 

Claude grins sidelong at her. “Hush. He was trying to welcome us to his humble home. Don’t forget that time you told my father _I will braid my hair with the bones of my acquaintances_ once.” 

Hilda sticks her tongue out at him, because that’s the sort of marriage they have. “And if I’m remembering, your father said that meant he was terrified to see what I’d do with the bones of my _enemies,_ if mere acquaintances ended up as my accessories.” 

Claude grins at her, then finds himself watching as the Fhirdiad castle staff bring out the food. In classic Faerghan tradition, the food is meat, meat, more meat, and the occasional shocking cheese or cream sauce. Claude has a vivid memory of eating dinner once with Teach and Sylvain Gautier, who’d spent the whole time bemoaning how he’d never known how awful Faerghan food was until he’d left. 

Hilda doesn’t say anything, though he’s sure she finds the spices as bland as he does; she’s from Fodlan, but growing up closer to Almyra means her palate is a bit more adventurous. Still, the food is warm and filling, and since it’s still snowing, that seems like it’s for the best. He wonders how Dimitri and Felix keep themselves in shape, now that they have all this food and no war left to fight. 

“I meant to ask you, Queen Hilda,” Dimitri says, and Claude wonders if he heard any of that, and hopes he didn’t; it was kind of Dimitri to try and speak his language even though he knows Claude speaks perfect Fodlan. “How is Marianne? I heard she was with you in Almyra.” 

“She is,” Hilda says, and her smile goes soft as it always does when she talks about her submissive. “I told her she could come with us, but she wasn’t feeling up to the trip.” 

Claude’s eyes go briefly to Felix, who is kneeling at Dimitri’s side. He doesn’t look very happy about it, but it’s _Felix,_ and Claude only ever saw him smiling when he was stabbing something—usually a training dummy—with his sword. He doesn’t look happy, and he also looks like he’s being _ignored._ In the time since they’ve started eating, Dimitri hasn’t fed Felix a single thing. 

Dedue’s been hand-feeding _Ashe_ , so Claude doubts it’s protocol that submissives can’t eat first—though Faerghus is so weird, who knows—but Dimitri is acting as if Felix isn’t even there. It’s possible he’s being punished for something, he supposes, and thinks about that odd interaction when they’d shown up in the throne room. 

Maybe it’s just their thing. What does he know? Claude takes a bite of his dinner, some poor animal that died to feed them and didn’t even merit a proper spicing before (or after) it was broiled and slapped on a plate, and watches the way this plays out. 

Hilda, who likes gossipping, is sharing news of their former classmates—the one’s she’s kept up with since the war ended, anyway. Ashe speaks up often but only after a nod from Dedue; Felix is silent, but Claude can’t say he expected anything else. Claude’s used to keeping his eye on just about everything going on around him, and being back in Fodlan certainly hasn’t inspired him to be less vigilant. Meaning he sees the precise second that Felix, kneeling next to Dimitri, reaches out and very casually smacks Dimitri on the leg. 

Dimitri startles, then blinks, and there’s a slight flush on his cheeks as he seems to remember his submissive kneeling there and waiting to eat. So not a punishment, then, but how does a dominant forget to feed their submissive? Isn’t this how they always do things, here? 

Protocol forbids talking about political matters at a welcome feast in Almyra, which is probably why their feasts have so many things going on at once; easier to distract people from making ill-advised treaties or, honestly, declaring war on each other if you’ve got people tumbling down silks from the ceiling. 

_Maybe we should have tried that with Edelgard,_ Claude thinks, and immediately feels bad about it. He didn’t entirely disagree with Edelgard’s motives, but he couldn’t say he approved of her methods. Still. He has a strange pang when he thinks about what might have been, in some other world where she would have asked him and Dimitri for help. 

“Your Majesty,” a woman murmurs, standing next to Dimitri with what appears to be a bread basket. She is clearly trying to duck in and place it on the table, but Dimitri..well, there’s rather a lot of him. 

“Yes? I, oh,” Dimitri says, moving back a little too quickly. His chair hits against Felix, who huffs and rolls his eyes, not even seeming to care if anyone sees him or not. 

Claude thinks he hears a muttered, _watch it, Boar,_ and he feels a curl of suspicion in his stomach as he reconsiders his wine. Old habits die hard, and Claude isn’t as far from assassination attempts as he’d like. Something about this is just _wrong,_ almost as if Felix isn’t actually Dimitri’s submissive at all. 

But every now and then, Claude sees him touch the edge of his collar when he thinks no one is looking. And once, when Dimitri _again_ forgets to feed him and maybe pinches him instead of smacking his leg, Dimitri cuts a sudden sharp glance at him and _that_ makes Felix do the closest thing to smile Claude’s seen all evening. 

“How are you finding kingship, Claude?” Dimitri asks, and then adds quickly, “King Khalid, of course. Forgive me.” 

There is one thing that Claude does not do as king in Almyra, and that’s ask forgiveness or permission if he doesn’t have to. “It’s fine, I made a point to answer to either. You knew me here as Claude, and my mother _did_ give me the name and she’s part Fodlan. And it’s much better than dealing with a bunch of squabbling Alliance nobles. I’m glad they’re your problem now, with the exception of my in-laws.” 

Dimitri smiles, and it’s small and reserved, even a little tired; but genuine, Claude thinks. He saw Dimitri in battle, blood-mad and screaming, tangled hair and that unholy spear of his raised high and stained crimson. He can’t imagine the sorts of things Dimitri might see in the dark. Faerghus did not treat its warriors well, even in wars were they were victorious. Especially then. They were not a people made for peace. 

“Count Gloucester is performing admirably in that regard,” Dimitri says, lifting his glass. He has yet to give Felix a single drink, either. 

“Lorenz always did have a yearning to tell people what to do,” Claude says, shaking his head. He takes a very deliberate sip of his wine, but Dimitri does not get the hint. “A dominant without a country to rule can be a bit of trial.” 

“I imagine it would be,” says Dimitri, who, unless Claude has forgotten every single thing that happened since Edelgard said her _fuck you_ to the Church of Seiros, _was in that exact position for five years_. 

“Are you okay?” Hilda asks, when Dimitri’s attention is drawn by another servant with yet another plate of probably boring food. 

“I’m onto something,” Claude says, in Almyran. 

Hilda tilts her head and her cute nose wrinkles; she’s getting better, but she’s nowhere near fluent. “You’re...just say it.” 

He smirks at her over his wine glass and winks. 

“Oh,” she says, because Hilda might not be fluent in Almyran but she is _definitely_ fluent in Claude Von Riegan. “Don’t get us thrown in a dungeon, although I doubt it’s much colder.” 

“Shh,” he says, but he’s smiling as he takes a drink. Faerghans have good beer, at least there’s that. And at least Dimitri seems to have remembered that Felix needs something to drink, though he’s clearly not as practiced at tipping the goblet for him as, say, Dedue is for Ashe. 

What is going on, here? Claude doesn’t think of Dimitri as someone who would be trying to pull one over on him—he’s just not that kind of man—but there’s something that doesn’t add up, and Claude is too curious so now he has to find out what it is. 

Besides Dimitri’s forgetting about Felix, he also seems startled by the array of servants who keep coming by to serve them, take their plates, pour the ale and the wine, do all the sorts of things that he would think Dimitri was used to by now. 

“We have a custom in Almyra,” Claude says, lying through his teeth, “When we welcome a foreign king and his submissive to our court.” He can _feel_ Hilda’s stare on the side of his head, but he knows she’ll go with it. That’s why he married her. She’s as much an innate schemer as he is. 

“Oh?” Dimitri asks. “What’s that?” 

“Well, you can of course choose not to honor it, it’s entirely up to you—I’d never presume to tell a king how to rule in his own house,” Claude says with a smile, and he notices with something like surprise and—because he’s predictable—desire when Dimitri, the king about whom they’re going to write ballads about his battle prowess—can’t meet his gaze in his own hall. Claude’s smile gets wider. “But when a ruling king, or queen, shows up without their submissive, it’s customary to allow them to borrow yours. Perhaps you would honor me by allowing me the service of yours.” 

“What,” says Felix, from his pillow. 

Next to him, Hilda snorts, very quietly. 

Dimitri looks like he’s not sure what to do, so Claude adds casually, “At dinner, Dimitri, I’m not asking for his services anywhere else,” and there’s the slightest flush on his face when Claude says that and he _still_ won’t quite look Claude in the eyes. 

If someone tried this with Hilda, asked to essentially _borrow_ Marianne? Custom or not, she’d respond with Friekugal and that’d be the end of that alliance or wedding or whatever else. But Dimitri just nods and says, “Of course, Claude, I would not want to make you feel unwelcome.” 

Claude smiles into his drink again. “Thank you. Felix, come over here and kneel by me.” At least he’d make sure Felix had some dinner. 

***

Felix is going to _kill_ Dimitri.

Tonight, when Dimitri is lying in bed with the heating pad at his feet and his hands tied to the bedposts to take the edge off of this walking disaster of an international incident, Felix is going to gently and lovingly strangle him with his bare fucking hands. Felix considers this for a moment, basking in the warmth it gives him, and tries to pass some of that heat to Dimitri before Claude— _fucking_ Claude—softly snaps his fingers and points to the floor at his side. Like Felix is some kind of misbehaving dog. Like he’s… his, which shouldn’t make Felix’s stomach clench and his cheeks color like he’s fucking fifteen. Dimitri straightens in his chair as though they’re in the schoolroom again, and Felix wonders if he shouldn’t just garrote them both with his own cloak chain here and now.

Dimitri wasn’t raised as a submissive, for all that it’s killing him not to beg the servants to stop, please, and just let him serve himself like he does in his suites, with Felix looking on while he arranges all the plates just so. Felix, however, is—was—a younger son. He was trained how to fight, like anyone else who can hold a blade in Faerghus, but he was also trained to memorize the proper protocols for a noble submissive. Dimitri, who was taught how to keep his shit under wraps and let it all bottle up and explode in the healthiest bloodbaths this side of hell, has apparently been blindsided by Claude enough to _let someone else borrow his collared submissive._

It isn’t an uncommon practice in Faerghus, but it means that people are probably going to think Felix is fair game, now. If nobles start _asking_ for him like a party favor… No. He’s going to have to start breaking fingers soon enough.

Starting with Claude’s.

Claude gives him a sharp look, cold and hard but not unsmiling, like he has all the time in the world to drag Felix through this dinner by the hair, and Felix can’t help the hitch of his breath, the way he holds his gaze as though he’s gripping Felix by the chin, even with Felix sitting on Dimitri’s other side.

Hilda takes a long draught of her beer and looks at Felix out of the corner of her eye. Felix grits his teeth, rises from the pillow Dimitri would give half the treasury just to kneel on for a minute, and crosses behind him to sit at Claude’s side. He stops partway, leans down as though to whisper in Dimitri’s ear, and lets his cloak mask the fact that he’s digging into the back of Dimitri’s neck with his nails. Dimitri gives him a look that could be a warning, if Felix ever bothered to listen, and Felix sinks down at his other side, next to Claude. 

He doesn’t bring the pillow. The hard tiles on his knees are a reminder to remain vigilant, even if Dimitri is too busy having a fucking crisis every time someone refills his drink to bother. He doesn’t sit all the way on his heels yet, and remains poised—to fight, maybe, or drag Claude off his chair and into the decorative dish of jelly shaped like a stag. He isn’t sure which, yet.

“Mm,” Claude says. He looks down at Felix like a teacher grading a lackluster assignment, except he’s still smiling, and he hooks two fingers in Felix’s collar and drags him the rest of the way down.

Felix can feel Dimitri’s hunger from here. He should get up again, but Claude hasn’t removed his fingers, and there’s something about being moved by the collar that sets off a flare in Felix’s brain. He tries to jerk away, and when Claude’s grip doesn’t slacken, the collar tightens on his neck.

The sound that builds in Felix’s throat at that is involuntary, low and urgent. Claude brushes a thumb over Felix’s chin and pulls his hand away.

“Dimitri,” Claude says, and Hilda is still drinking, _how_ is she still drinking, “I can’t really reach the bread.”

He can. It’s right there. It’s right _fucking_ there. 

Dimitri helpfully passes the basket towards Claude anyways. 

“Thank you,” Claude says, and Dimitri gives him a bland, slightly bewildered smile. It’s the vague look he always gets when doms start to work him, unintentionally or not, and it’s gained him a reputation at council as an _enigma_. Felix barely suppresses a soft, huffing laugh at the thought.

Claude breaks off a piece of bread and passes it down. Dimitri’s probably going to have something sent up to their rooms as an apology, later, but that’s at least an hour from now and Felix has been sitting here smacking Dimitri’s shins for longer than he cares to admit. He raises a hand to take it, and Claude draws back.

“Hands on your thighs,” he says. He puts just enough of his influence into his voice to make Felix shudder, and Dimitri’s hand flexes out of the corner of Felix’s eye. Felix risks a look at Claude, a clear challenge, and Claude leans back and stretches his legs under the table. Felix glances at the darkness under the tablecloth, the space between Claude’s thighs, and looks down. Slowly, hating the rush that rolls through him at the thought, Felix curls his hands into fists on his thighs.

Claude leans down, then, and holds Felix’s face in a tight grip, forcing him to look him head-on or stare down at his fingers. “If you don’t want this,” he says, in a voice so smug it’s clear he already knows the answer, “then tell me now.”

He slides his fingers into Felix’s mouth. They taste like salt, like the bread broken to pieces on his plate, and the weight of them almost draws Felix out of his own head. 

He’s vaguely aware that Hilda is saying something over all this, something about… cats, he thinks, he isn’t sure, because the world is starting to focus on the press of fingers on his tongue and Claude’s knowing smile. Felix sucks on his fingers, and Claude beams as though he’s pulled off a particularly complex maneuver on the training fields, not debased himself in front of most of his noble peers.

Claude pulls his fingers out of Felix’s mouth, dragging them up the sharp line of his jaw and away, and goes back to the bread. This time, he half turns to Felix in his chair, threads his fingers through the fine strands of Felix’s hair, and yanks his head back with just enough force to leave Felix gasping.

“Good boy,” Claude says, just to needle him, probably, and presses a piece of bread to his tongue.

He doesn’t let go when he turns back to the conversation, just keeps Felix’s head tilted in a firm, unyielding grip, and Felix doesn’t object when he slips him slivers of meat off his plate a moment later. He tries to tell himself that he’s too hungry to care, but he knows that his formal dining clothes are too well-tailored to hide what this is doing to him. He doesn’t shift to make himself comfortable, even if he wants to, because there’s something raw and primal and desperate in the back of his mind telling him to _be good, be good._

At least he gets a decent meal out of it. Dimitri, who eats enough for an ox on an off day, probably doesn’t realize that the cooks have made him enough for two. Felix is still going to kill him, later, but it’s hard to muster the enthusiasm now that Claude has turned to petting and tugging at his roots in turns while his voice drifts over Felix’s head, warm and indistinct. Long inky strands fall to Felix’s shoulders, and Dimitri makes a sound that could be a laugh when Claude pulls away, leaving Felix blinking slowly at his hands.

“Goddess, you’re a mess,” Dimitri murmurs, and Felix can’t stop the flush that crawls up his neck at _that._ Then, just when Dimitri could have cemented at least a quavering rumor that he has a dominant bone in his body, he says, “Let me,” and gathers up Felix’s hair.

Which is fine, usually, when they’re alone. Dimitri _likes_ Felix’s hair, likes how difficult it is, the satisfying process of twisting it up again and making it presentable, but it isn’t a sensible thing for him to do in public, and he wouldn’t do it at all if being waited on hand and foot hadn’t worked him into a fucking swivet. He’s probably going to be insufferable tonight.

“You’re going to be insufferable,” Felix says, and Dimitri’s silent laugh is a puff of heat on the back of his neck.

“Most likely, yes.”

Hilda makes a soft sound at Claude’s side, something that sounds suspiciously like the noises someone would make at a kitten or an endearing pet, but Claude is just smiling. He’s too pleased with himself, in Felix’s opinion, but a small part of Felix’s brain, the part he’s spent the better part of his life trying to ignore, wonders if he isn’t also a little pleased with _him._

For eating. Which every noble submissive in Faerghus should know how to do.

Fuck.

His knees really are starting to hurt by the time the dessert tray—a spun-sugar lion rearing from a field of marzipan—is hauled away and Dimitri rises from his seat to the customary applause, but Felix remains kneeling just a moment too long. Claude runs his hand through Felix’s hair one last time and touches the collar at his neck.

“Thank you again for the courtesy, Dimitri,” Claude says, and Felix sucks in a sharp breath at the curl of fingers under his collar.

“Any t—you’re welcome,” Dimitri says. “I’m glad he could be of service.”

Felix levels Dimitri with a dry look. When Dimitri just stares back, Felix sighs and gets up, etiquette be damned, and unconsciously adjusts his collar. He bows farewell to Claude and Hilda, because he knows that’s what Dimitri wants to do. Then he ignores Dimitri’s grateful look and turns to go, letting the king of fucking Faerghus hurry to trot after him like a bewildered puppy left at the door.

Not that Dimitri doesn’t practically drag Felix into the unused spare drawing room in the royal wing, where he straightens the mess his large hands have made of Felix’s clothes, gives Felix a look that is positively pleading, and drops to his knees with a thump that rattles a portrait of Dimitri’s great-great grandmother. Felix wants to grab his hands and guide them to his waist, the way he usually does when he’s trying to chase the incessant itch under his skin, but Dimitri’s hands are too busy delicately unlacing the front of Felix’s trousers at the moment.

“He was working you,” Felix says. Dimitri looks up at him, hair falling over his eye, and gently tugs down his trousers. He’s always too gentle when he’s worked up, too reverent. Felix remembers the tug of Claude’s fingers on his collar, the time Dimitri, in the middle of battle, grabbed his arm and twisted him to face the eastern flank of the imperial army, and bites the inside of his cheek.

“You were wonderful,” Dimitri says. He ghosts his hands up Felix’s sides, a mockery of the strength Felix needs to grasp the heat building in his chest, and takes Felix into his mouth with an urgency that has Felix cursing under his breath.

Dimitri loves this. Felix has made a habit of resisting, years of resentment and frustration twisting into a knot that can’t be gently pried loose by a careful hand, but Dimitri revels in these private moments when he can kneel for someone, anyone. He’s too frantic to be overly careful tonight, but Felix is worked up anyways, and when he puts his hands in Dimitri’s hair and hunches over him, gasping in the throes of release, Dimitri shudders in pleasure.

When Dimitri is almost content, breathing softly against Felix’s bare thigh, Felix brushes his hair out of his eye and meets his gaze.

“We’re gonna have to talk about this,” he says, and Dimitri looks away, dutiful as any collared sub caught in a misstep. Felix sighs and tips his head back onto the wallpaper.

“Yes,” Dimitri says at last, in a dazed, quiet voice somewhere far below him. “I suppose we will.”


	2. negotiations

“I can’t _believe_ you,” says Hilda, the second they’re back in their rooms. She’s doubled over, laughing so hard her bright pink eyes shimmer with tears. “Almyran custom, really? Try that with Mari and I will _end_ you, King Khalid.” 

Claude grins and starts taking off his formal attire. “Why, my queen, my love, my darling, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Uh-huh.” Hilda steps in and makes quick work of the buttons on his coat. She must be pleased with him if she’s putting in some effort. “Seriously, what were you thinking?” 

“That Dimitri’s not a dom,” says Claude. 

“Huh? He’s a king. I also, and thanks for bringing up _this_ memory, saw him kill four Imperial soldiers at once with Areadbhar. He impaled them.” 

“That’s what spears are for, yes.” 

“With the _blunt end_ ,” Hilda adds. “That’s how strong he is.” 

“Being physically strong and able to impale someone with a blunt-end of a spear doesn’t make you a dominant,” Claude says, then adds, “It makes you terrifying, and I wish you hadn’t just told me that because now I’m going to have nightmares, but it’s not a sign of inherent dominance.” 

She finishes with his coat, pushing it off his shoulders. “I’ve seen you tear through a battalion or two yourself, Mr. Leader Man.” 

“Same, my precious delicate flower,” he says, shrugging out of the coat. She continues with his clothes, so he continues talking. “Want to hear how I figured it out?” 

She glances down, then up at his face, and quirks one arched pink brow at him. “You _clearly_ want to tell me, so, sure.” 

“Like my schemes don’t get you hot,” Claude says with a laugh, reaching out to tug at her hair. 

“Scheme away, then, something has to keep me warm in this frozen wasteland.” She shivers, stepping closer, and in typical Hilda fashion gives up doing work to press up against him and tuck her head on his shoulder, arms sliding around his waist. 

Claude doesn’t mind. He puts his arms around her and, in typical _Claude_ fashion, keeps talking. “He kept forgetting to feed Felix. Like, can you imagine doing that to Marianne?” They all typically eat on pillows on the floor in Almyra, but Hilda does tend to hand-feed Marianne because she likes the caretaking. And also Marianne sucking on her fingers. Hilda never does anything remotely resembling effort if it doesn’t also include a reward, but she’s also an attentive dominant and cares about Marianne having things like, say, food and drink. 

“No, but how did you -- ugh, what I’m asking, it’s _you_ , of course you noticed.” She peeks up at him. “But maybe he’s just...I mean, it’s Felix. You had to drag him by the collar.” 

“And he liked it,” says Claude, remembering. 

Hilda’s other eyebrow raises to join the first. “You clearly liked it, too. Are still liking it, in fact.” 

“That is also you,” Claude informs her. “You’re hot.” 

“I wish,” she mumbles. “So that’s what tipped you off? Again, maybe he’s just bad at being a dominant, Claude. I grew up with all kinds of stories about how Faerghus nobles treated their subs.” 

“You grew up with a ton of bad information about a lot of places,” Claude reminds her, pointedly. 

She flushes at that -- there’s no denying Hilda had some pretty xenophobic ideas about Almyra, but to be fair, she worked hard to educate herself about why those ideas were wrong. “I know, but this place is barely civilized. You can see how they might be, like, barbarians or whatever --” 

“Hilda,” Claude interrupts. “They say that about Almyra, too.” 

“Yes, and they’re wrong,” says Hilda. “People say that about Almyra because people are racist. Here, it’s true. If they weren’t barbarians, it would be warmer and they’d have, like, a salad course or something with a vegetable. And a spice that isn’t black pepper or salt. And those hot springs would be a lot closer.” 

Claude tips her chin up and smiles down at her with affection. “Never change.” 

“I won’t.” She leans up on tiptoe and kisses him, and he kisses her back with lazy intent, hands running up and down her back. “Mmm. That’s warming me up. I can’t lie, it was hot as hell watching you drag Felix by that collar and shove your fingers in his mouth.” 

It was, and Claude wants to do it again. As well as shove other things in his mouth. “I think Dimitri isn’t a dominant and Felix knows it. Did you see them at the end? Felix stormed off and Dimitri followed him.” 

“Is Felix secretly a dominant, then? I really don’t think he is.” 

“He isn’t,” Claude says. “Believe me. He liked being jerked around by that collar as much as I liked doing it.” He remembers Felix sucking on his fingers with a shiver. 

“So they’re both submissives? Huh. Dimitri _did_ look a little weird about all the deference, but I thought that was just how he was. Like, he was that way at school, remember? All _no, no, don’t call me your highness_ .” Her Dimitri impression is sort of funny as she tries to match the low timber of his voice. She also adds a weird accent, for no reason, but it’s funny so Claude doesn’t ask. “ _I’m just a normal person, please, don’t treat me any differently when we spar, Hilda.”_

“Did that really happen, or is this one of those things you pretended --oof,” Claude gives a huff as she punches him right above the kidney. “Don’t, I need those. And I’m pretty sure they’re both submissives, yeah. I watched Dedue, and he’s not from Fodlan either but he was very attentive to Ashe and seemed to know protocol. I wouldn’t be surprised if Felix and Dimitri eat in private, because Dimitri isn’t a dominant and poor Felix doesn’t want to starve.” 

“Huh.” Hilda pulls back and tugs him toward the bed. “So, what does that mean for our visit? The peace talks?” 

“Probably nothing. If Dimitri is trying to downplay it, it’s possible that none of his council knows, which, I’m not sure _how_ \--” 

“Scurvy, probably, since they’ve never met a fruit,” grumbles Hilda. 

Claude wisely doesn’t point out that she likes her fruit in tarts or other desserts and keeps going. “But I don’t think it’ll be an issue, because he’s still the king and that’s all that matters for our treaty discussions. Except that, Hilda...what if I told you I had an idea?” 

“I’d be _so_ shocked,” she says, eyes comically wide, as she sits on the edge of their large bed. “What are you planning, then?” 

“Well,” Claude says, pouncing and pressing her back against the furs. He grins down at her. “I thought I’d be a good friend and help them out. If you don’t mind.” 

“Are you asking me if I _mind_ if you fuck the King of Faerghus and his cranky, fighty submissive?” Hilda asks, breaking his hold on one of her wrists to reach up and tug the decorative scarf from his hair so that his messy, dark curls fall over his brow. “You’ve met me, right?” 

“I have, yes, and I thought you’d approve. But just checking. It could end badly and we’ll have to sneak out in the middle of the night, find our wyverns and fly away in the snow.” 

She makes a face. “That does change things. I hate the snow. Are you just going to find them, tell them both to kneel and start ordering them around?” 

Claude stares off into space, momentarily imagining that. “Mm.” 

Hilda clears her throat. “Not the time for sharing sexy fun fantasies, time to tell me what you’re planning.” 

“But what if it is also sexy and fun?” 

“Nothing that ends with me on a wyvern in the snow is either of those things, Claude.” She reaches up and tugs one of his longer curls. “We can get back to the sexy fun part after you tell me what you had in mind.” 

He leans down and presses a hot kiss on her throat. “Just a friendly offer from a fellow king, a dominant who happened to notice how hard up they both are to be put on their knees _and_ in their place.” 

Hilda’s breath catches and she arches her throat -- she can say whatever she wants about not wanting to flee Fhirdiad in the middle of a snowstorm, but she’s clearly not immune to the potential of what he’s saying. When he shifts and gets a thigh between her legs, she rubs against it and tugs on his hair to keep his mouth at her neck. 

“That also means I can stay under these blankets and in front of a fire, right?” 

“Whatever my darling queen wants,” Claude agrees. “Though I’m kind of surprised you don’t want to watch.” 

“Duh, but I don’t think they’d be into that. And it’s fine. I don’t have the patience you do for people who don’t immediately do what I want.” 

Claude grins against her sweet skin, pressing another kiss there on her collarbone. That’s the truth. “I’ll tell you all about it, how’s that.” 

“Acceptable. Now warm me up,” she demands, and Claude, who knows very well just how impatient she can be, doesn’t hesitate to do just that. 

***

It’s hard to tell the hour when Claude leaves Hilda where she lies in a cocoon of furs in front of a fireplace piled high enough to melt the grate, but it seems the sun always sets early over Faerghus this time of year. There are glass panels fitted to the ceiling, presumably meant to filter in sunlight, but what isn’t covered in a thick layer of snow is black as pitch, and aside from the maid who came in to warily place more wood on the fire, there aren’t any servants hanging about. The royal wing is eerily quiet—Claude half expects a ghost to come drifting down the hall any minute, howling like the wind over the roof. No wonder Dimitri always looks tired, living in a place like this. It’s enough to make Claude want to light some lamps and replace the tapestries, and he’s only been here for a day.

He’s halfway down the hall when he hears it—A scrape of wood off to the right, a little ways down. He tenses, eases to the wall so his shadow disappears along the grooves of the stone, and silently approaches the source of the sound, keeping his head low. There’s a hiss of breath, a grunt, and the dull, heavy thud of something hitting the ground.

Then, of all things, he hears someone laugh. It isn’t a laugh he’s heard before—It’s borderline hysterical, full of gasping breaths and ungainly wheezing, and there’s another thud, a high whine of someone trying to hold their breath, and a full, half-sobbing guffaw.

“That wasn’t supposed to be...“ Felix’s voice, thick with irritation. Claude reaches the partially open door and stops just before his shadow crosses the line underneath. “Stop laughing.”

“I’m sorry.” Dimitri sounds like he’s on the verge of tears. He gasps, and Felix makes a muffled grunting sound. “I’m sorry. Never try to do that again. You were terrible. I’ll have a statue of it built later, just for our suites, so I can remember—“

“Oh, fuck you, I was trying to be fucking _nice_ —“

“The day Felix Hugo Fraldarius—“ Dimitri lets out a howl of laughter, and Claude leans back, crossing his arms. “Tried to—say it again, Fee, please. Say it again.”

“Tie _yourself_ to the bed from now on, _Boar.”_

Claude smiles to himself. Well, then.

“No, the other thing.” Claude’s never heard Dimitri like this before. He was always so reserved at Garreg Mach, his smiles slight and his laughter just this side of silent, and Claude wonders who else has heard him like this. “I’m sorry. I apologize, love, don’t… pff… don’t leave me, I’ll be a miserable wretch without you…”

“You’re a disgrace,” Felix says. Through the slightly open door, Claude just sees him cross to a couch. There are bookshelves on either side of him, enormous, sturdy constructions that look carved into the wall itself, and Felix is diminished in their shadow. Despite himself, Felix is almost smiling, just a thin stretch of the lips that wasn’t there before.

“We’ll make this about you, then,” Dimitri says. A hand slides up Felix’s leg, and yes, that’s Dimitri _kneeling_ for him, rising between his thighs to draw him in for a kiss. “What do you want? I can pretend you’re one of the nobles on the council, if you like.”

“Your dom voice is worse than mine,” Felix says, and Dimitri draws back just enough to laugh. Felix lets out a sound of disgust and pushes Dimitri’s face away, and Dimitri half falls onto the couch. “And you’ll need that shit for Claude. I saw the way he looked at you tonight. He suspects something.”

“See, you do love me,” Dimitri says. Felix groans and pushes off from the couch. “Wait, yes, I know, I was there, Felix. It’s just how some doms are. They’re always testing each other.”

“It isn’t a test when you were halfway to your knees by the second course.”

“Please,” Dimitri says. “Don’t mince words on _my_ account. Tell me how you feel, Felix.”

“I feel like my _skin’s_ on fire, Dima.”

Dimitri goes still, and his smile fades somewhat, bringing him back to the man Claude remembers. “Ah. Alright.” He pushes himself up, and disappears from Claude’s line of sight. “I’ll take care of it. Come on, Felix...”

In that moment, it takes all of Claude’s self control not to push the door open and order the both of them to their knees. They need it, that much is for sure, but while the thought of catching them off guard _does_ hold its appeal, there are better ways to do this. Claude backs up a few yards, moves into the middle of the hall, and walks pointedly with his heels clicking on the stone, making as much noise as humanly possible. The voices stutter to a halt, and Claude turns to the door with a good-natured look of surprise that is wasted on the empty hallway.

“Everything okay in there?” he asks, pushing the door open with his knuckles. “Thought I heard voices.”

“We’re occupied,” Felix says. Claude steps inside anyways. The room appears to be a small library, possibly one of those ridiculous family ones, full of genealogy books and the occasional tome purchased for decorative purposes only. Felix is sprawled on the corner of the couch, holding a book in one hand, while Dimitri hovers at a desk with an empty quill jammed between his fingers.

“Claude,” he says, with a shaky smile. “Your majesty. I didn’t expect you to be up. Is everything alright? The maid said she might have built the fire a little too high, I can always—“ Felix makes a soft, strangled sort of groan from the couch, and Dimitri’s smile thins. “I apologize. I tend to...” Felix’s groan lengthens, like the growl of a cat stretched impossibly long, and Dimitri’s eyes narrow. “Felix.”

Felix’s scowl, which Claude suspects is supposed to be hidden by his book, is scathing.

“Actually,” Claude says, and discreetly closes the door behind him. Felix’s fingers tighten on his book, and the quill slides across the empty table. “I thought I might offer a proposal.”

“Of course,” Dimitri says, automatically. His cheeks darken. “Within reason.”

“It’s about your submissive,” Claude says, pointedly not looking at Felix, who shifts at the corner of his eye. “I’d like to pick up where we left off, if you don’t mind. You see, I couldn’t help noticing that your submissive…” He crosses the rug to the desk, and Dimitri draws up straight, hands falling slack at his sides. “Is, mm. A little difficult.”

Dimitri’s lips twitch. “That’s one word for it,” he says.

“Dimitri,” Felix hisses, from over Claude’s shoulder. Claude ignores him. He looks Dimitri in the eyes, holding his gaze until Dimitri breaks away. 

“Or you can call him argumentative, disobedient, and high-strung,” Claude says. Felix makes an indignant sound from the couch. “And bitey, I’d bet. He looks like a biter.” Dimitri struggles to keep his expression level. “If you don’t object, I can rein him in for you. All per custom, of course.”

“I’m not sure if…” Dimitri looks over Claude’s shoulder. He and Felix have a silent conversation, all raised brows and pinched lips, and Dimitri sighs. “You said yourself that he’s… difficult.”

“I also like a challenge,” Claude says, and smiles, baring his teeth. “You’ll be there for it, anyways. It’s customary for the dominant to watch.”

“Oh,” Dimitri says. “Of course. Then. Then yes, feel free. How long—?”

“Just a short session,” Claude says, turning at last to Felix, who is flushed pink with outrage and obvious desire. “Enough to put him under. You can stay where you are,” he adds, lending just a touch of dominance to his voice, and stands in the middle of the room, drinking in the heated looks on either side. He half wishes Hilda were here to see this. It’s going to be _magnificent._

“Felix,” he says.

Felix looks at him. He blinks slowly, still holding his book, and sets it down on the arm of the couch. When Claude approaches, he leans back ever so slightly, pupils blown wide, and Claude touches the small, probably decorative ring on Felix’s collar.

“Before we start, tell me your limits,” Claude says. “I’d rather get it out of the way now.”

Felix stares at him for another moment, jaw working. It’s a delight to watch him fight himself, fingers clenching and unclenching on the couch, lips already slightly parted. “Don’t do it where people can… see,” he says.

Claude raises a brow. “Did I cross a line at the feast?”

“No,” Felix grits out. They’re very close; Claude leaning over him, narrowing his focus to Claude alone, but Felix manages to glance towards the desk. “If we’re doing this… together… not where people can see.”

Claude beams down at him. It’s almost sweet, really. Felix might be, well, Felix, but he’s still stubbornly loyal, and Claude can respect that.

“Alright,” Claude says. “I’ll keep it discreet. Thank you for telling me.” He leans back a little, giving Felix space to breathe, then takes off his rings, one by one, and places them in a line on one of the bookshelves. When he’s done, when Felix is staring at his knuckles with the dark-eyed gaze of true hunger, Claude hauls back his hand and slaps him full across the face. 

Felix moans. Behind him, Claude can swear he hears an answering hiss of breath. Felix’s mouth hangs slightly open, his cheeks hot with shame and desire both, and because he’s being so _good_ for him, Claude slaps him again on the other side. Felix’s eyes flutter shut for a second, and Claude lays a hand on the couch behind him, boxing him in.

“Take off my belt, Felix,” Claude says, pitching his voice so low that he can see Felix shiver from here. “And hook it around your collar.”

Of course, Felix hesitates, too thrown by the sting in his cheeks to register Claude’s command, then his brows knit and he glances down at the fine gold belt that hangs uselessly from Claude’s formalwear. He yanks at the belt, jerking Claude forward an inch, and Claude presses down on his lower lip with a thumb. Felix’s lips close around him, and Claude practically preens as Felix slides the belt loose. He weaves the end through the hook in his collar, but he can’t quite see the clasp from there, and it takes some doing to have it fully secured. Claude slips his thumb free to wrap a hand around the chain when Felix is done. He pulls him up, holding Felix half perched on the edge of the couch as he kisses him, biting his lip before Felix gets the chance to try. Felix moans into his mouth, and his legs tremble as he tries to hold his position, the cords of his neck straining against the collar.

Claude straightens, but he tightens his grip on the chain, forcing Felix to drop to his knees. Felix actually doesn’t object, which shows how badly he needs this, and Claude glances at Dimitri as he leans forward to run his free hand through Felix’s hair.

Dimitri is pressed to the bookshelf at his back, watching them with his hands twisted firmly behind him. Probably has them at his lower back, Claude thinks, like a good submissive. He sees Claude looking and quickly looks away, towards the spot on the rug where Felix is kneeling.

 _Just a little more,_ Claude thinks. He works Felix’s hair loose, undoing all of Dimitri’s careful work from the feast, and stops to admire the picture he makes, flushed and panting and desperate.

Dimitri moves, ever so slightly, and Claude snaps out, “Don’t touch yourself.” Dimitri freezes. Felix gives Claude a curious look.

“Wasn’t… going to,” he says. Dimitri, still pressed against the bookshelf, holds his hands behind his back again.

“Good boy,” Claude says, looking at Felix. “You’ve probably been pent-up for a while, huh?”

Felix doesn’t answer at first, so Claude jerks at the chain, just enough to make Felix blink and raise his hands to his collar. 

“Maybe. Yeah,” Felix says, in a soft voice. 

“Mm. Thought so.” Claude shifts his feet, nudging Felix’s knees apart with his left boot. “Go on, then.”

Felix frowns. “What.”

“You’ve been so good,” Claude says, looking up at Dimitri from over Felix’s head. “It’s been long enough, don’t you think? Go on.”

“I’m—“ Felix’s hair slides over his face as Claude steps closer. His breath comes out in a great rush, and when Claude pulls at the chain, Felix gingerly straddles his boot.

“You can touch me,” Claude says. He lets the chain slacken, jingling slightly as Felix gives an experimental roll of his hips. He blushes so easily, even through messy curtains of black hair, and when he reaches up to grasp Claude’s thigh, Claude rakes his nails over his neck. 

This would be better, he knows, if Felix were naked, fucking himself on Claude’s boot in the royal family’s library while the king looks on, but it’s enough for now. Next time, though… Claude smiles as Felix’ breath comes short, as his hands clench on his leg, his forehead brushing against Claude’s thigh. 

“You have to ask me to come,” Claude says. “Are you close?” He grips the roots of Felix’s hair and pulls, and Felix lets out a breathless moan that Claude won’t forget in a hurry. 

“Yeah,” Felix pants. “Yeah. Close.”

“You know what to say,” Claude says, tugging at Felix’s hair again. He holds his head back, smiling down into Felix’s hazy eyes, and Felix licks his lips. His hair keeps slipping into his open mouth, and the chain is clinking faster as he moves, brushing his cheek.

“Can I—“ Felix wants to bow his head, but he can’t, and his eyes narrow to just the whites under his dark lashes. “Can I—come, can—“

“Go ahead,” Claude says, and Felix’s hips stutter, and his mouth hangs open, panting hoarsely under Claude’s gaze. He lets go, and Felix bows his head, hands sliding to the floor, still kneeling over Claude’s boot. 

“There we go,” Claude says, stroking his hair fondly. He adds a note of command to his voice again, ringing out over Felix’s labored breath. “Now. On your knees.”

Felix struggles to lift his head, too gone to do more than barely furrow his brow. “What? But I’m… already…”

Claude lifts his gaze to Dimitri. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He lowers his voice dangerously. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

Then, with a thump that shakes the inkwell and makes the books rattle on their shelves, King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd falls to his knees.


	3. acceptance

There is half a second after his knees hit the floor where Dimitri thinks, _perhaps I should not be doing this._

The relief of kneeling is immediate, he’s been holding in all the tension from the various and sundry pressures that come from being a monarch, even _without_ having to entertain the king of Almyra. 

Dimitri remembers Claude from school, though he does not recall Claude having nearly this effortless dominance in his every word, every gesture...though it is entirely possible that just as Dimitri hid the truth of his own submissive nature, Claude did the same in the other direction. 

For now, though, those thoughts vanish as he stares at the floor with his heart racing and his hands clasped tight behind his back. He’s breathing too fast as Claude’s boots grow nearer, and he feels those fingers slide through his hair and give a little tug -- gentler by far than he was with Felix, but Dimitri still felt it deep down in his bones. 

Speaking of Felix -- 

There he is, having risen and moved so that he’s standing between Dimitri and Claude. “What are you _doing?”_

Dimitri has no idea if Felix is asking him, or Claude. Dimitri glances up, and Felix is -- oh. A mess, his dark hair wild around his face, which is still flushed from his earlier activities. His catlike eyes are softer than they’ve been in so long, and while he looks _wary,_ the tension that had wound him up into so many knots seems to have eased. It’s not -- and likely never will be -- entirely gone, but for Felix, he’s practically relaxed. 

Dimitri doesn’t want to ruin that, but he _needs_ this, so badly. “Felix, I --” 

“It’s all right, Felix,” Claude interrupts, dominance etched in every syllable as his hand pets Dimitri’s hair like he’s a cat. “I know you’re helping him by wearing his collar, but he needs this as badly as you did.” 

“Don’t presume to know what you’re talking about,” says Felix, and Dimitri feels...something sharp and sweet at the idea that even now, under as he hasn’t been in far too long (because Dimitri can’t put him there, not anymore, not without a war), he is shielding Dimitri. Trying to protect him. 

“Felix,” Claude says, again. “Dimitri. Both of you. Gods, _both_ of you.” He sounds very pleased. “Look at me, can you do that?” 

Dimitri tilts his head up; Felix is also staring at Claude. There’s no way either of them could resist, not when he uses that _voice._

Claude shakes his head, still smiling that pleased little smile. “I figured something like this was going on. Dimitri, when you have a submissive kneeling by your side at dinner, you do have to actually _feed_ him.” 

“I _told_ you,” Felix huffs. 

Dimitri winces. “Yes, that wasn’t...well, I did apologize to Felix for that, we don’t generally take our meals that way, you see.” 

Claude waves a hand and cuts him off. “You’re a submissive. Inclined toward service, I’d imagine?” 

Dimitri sighs. There is really no point in denying it, not when he dropped so easily to his knees. “Yes.” 

“Dimitri,” Felix hisses. Felix, who is so contrary and so loyal, he’d deny the truth of the sky being blue if he thought it would keep Dimitri safe. 

“He’s figured it out, pet,” Dimitri says, to Felix, who scowls and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s such a mess, and he looks so good that way. Mussed hair, bright cheeks, soft eyes and his trousers stained on the front from where he came against Claude’s boot. Dimitri adores every prickly inch of him, his strength and his refusal to ever let anyone get away with anything. 

“If you try and use this information to hurt him, I don’t care _how_ good you are at -- at anything, I will run you through with my sword,” Felix growls. “I’m his collared submissive and _I will_ protect him.” 

Claude doesn’t look particularly bothered by Felix’s threat. “Of course you would. That’s how it should be, isn’t it? You’re his Shield. Look, I need you both to think about this from my perspective, for a moment. I want this peace treaty more than anything. I’ve worked my whole life to see that it happens, and if you don’t trust me on a personal level, then you should trust me on that. I won’t sabotage the thing I’ve been working for my whole life just to tell the world King Dimitri likes to be put on his knees and forced to serve.” 

Dimitri’s entire body flashes hot at Claude saying that, and as tense as the moment is, all he can think about is _yes, please let me do that. Let me serve you._ His mouth is almost watering at the thought, eyes straying to Claude’s trousers, the arousal he can see pressing against the fabric. 

“Which, I have to say...I remember you during the war, Dimitri, and --” 

“Don’t talk about the war,” Felix snaps, words sharp as his favorite silver sword. 

“Felix, please, it’s all _right._ ” Dimitri’s not a dominant but he _is_ Felix’s king, and perhaps that will be enough to soothe Felix’s ruffled feathers a bit. He’s suddenly very glad that Claude put Felix under before he made Dimitri kneel. Felix might have gone for Claude’s throat with a letter opener, if not. “I believe him.” 

“You believe him because you want to kneel for him,” says Felix, as if he didn’t just do the same thing. 

“You can trust me,” Claude says, hands behind his head. “I won’t risk this peace treaty for anyone. And if you think me so nefarious as to tell -- someone, I’m not real sure on who you think that is, exactly -- that King Dimitri is a submissive, then wouldn’t it be more in my best interest to use my dominance to _make_ you sign my treaty and give me whatever I want? My point is, I have no reason to use this information against either of you.” 

Felix stares at Claude, then looks sharply at Dimitri. Something eases in his expression. “You need this.” 

It isn’t a question, but Dimitri answers. “I -- yes.” 

“Let me take care of him, like I did for you,” Claude says, to Felix. “You know he wants it. He’s as desperate as you were.” 

Dimitri’s cock is so hard, and he can’t -- he can’t do anything but _stare_ up at Claude, who’s dominance is so easy, so effortless. Claude reaches out and starts stroking Felix’s messy hair; Felix, all spiky and angry, who starts to ease back under the second Claude puts his hand on him. 

“The two of you,” Claude continues, his bright green eyes amused, his smile sly. “Felix, kneel.” He snaps his fingers. Dimitri sees Felix fight it for only a second before he goes down, kneeling by Dimitri. “There we go. I’m going to take care of your king, and you can watch.” He waits, patient, holding the ends of his belt that is serving as Felix’s makeshift leash. 

Felix, kneeling there and blinking like he can’t quite decide if he wants to go back under or fight, sort of stares at Claude and finally grits out, “Thank you.” He sounds very grudging about it, but Dimitri can see him start to go back under as Claude gives the belt a tug and starts to walk. 

“I like how much you fight,” Claude says, as Felix makes a _beautiful_ sound and hastens after him, shuffling forward on his knees. “But that’s not what Dimitri needs right now, so you’re going to be a good boy and stay nice and quiet for me, aren’t you?” He stops over by a large globe stand -- he spins it, like he can’t quite help himself -- and then loops the belt around the base of the stand. 

Felix’s eyes meet Dimitri’s, for just a second - and then Claude takes his chin and forces his gaze up. “I asked you a question.” 

Dimitri watches as Felix goes through his usual fight against himself and his nature and then nods, gaze shifting submissively downward. The second he does it, his shoulders relax. Dimitri can practically feel his relief from here. It makes Dimitri shift on his knees, eager, waiting for his turn. There is something satisfying in that, too. 

“That’s a good pet,” Claude says in a warm voice, and smacks Felix across the face. Then he rubs his fingers over Felix’s mouth, pats him on the head, and returns to stand by Dimitri. 

Claude strokes Dimitri’s hair out of his face. “Can I tie your hair back? I want to see your face.”

“I -- if you wish,” Dimitri says, blinking his good eye up at him. 

“You are so eager for it,” says Claude, shaking his head. He slips something off his wrist and ties Dimitri’s hair back, and his fingers draw over the tie of his eyepatch. He gives Dimitri a questioning look. 

From across the room, Felix makes a sound -- not quite a growl, but close. A warning. 

Claude ignores him, instead asking Dimitri, “Do you want to take this off, or leave it on?” 

The only person who’s ever seen Dimitri with the eyepatch off is Felix. He hesitates, and Claude must see it because he says, “I’m asking you because I want you to answer. Honestly.” 

“I would prefer to leave it on,” Dimitri says, softly. 

“Then we’ll leave it on.” Claude strokes his jaw, his chin. His touch makes Dimitri shiver. “Now, your Felix likes to be put in his place, to fight, to be roughed up a little...that’s not what you like, though, is it?” 

Claude’s voice is hypnotic. Dimitri shakes his head. “No.” He’s had enough fighting, if anyone would believe that from a king of a land renowned for little else. 

“I saw you at dinner,” Claude says, and he’s petting Dimitri, fingers gentle. So different than the confident and somewhat cruel touch he’d used on Felix, but just as effective. “You wanted to be on your knees, didn’t you? Serving me.” 

Dimiri blinks up at him. “I...yes.” 

“Mm. It’s foolish that a submissive king can’t rule,” says Claude. “Kings are supposed to serve their people. You gave up almost everything for them. You suffered and bled and almost went mad--” 

“Knock it off,” Felix hisses, from the corner. 

But Dimitri understands that Claude is...Claude is _praising_ him for that, in his warm voice with that soft, knowing smile. “I let them down,” Dimitri says, eyes downcast. “I was too focused on myself. My vengeance. What I’d lost. I nearly...nearly lost them all.” He badly wants to look over at Felix, but they’ve been over this a million times. Felix hates when Dimitri is guilty. Felix wants him to rule, to be strong. 

“You need out of your head, your majesty,” Claude breathes, and even though he’s using the title, it feels like there’s only one king in this room and it is not Dimitri. “Let me help you.” He stands in front of Dimitri, stance easy, and reaches a hand down to rub over his cock. “I want you to use your mouth on me. Serve me. Make me come.”

Dimitri wants that, so much. He shuffles forward and blinks up at Claude, who looks completely delighted and is undoing the laces on his trousers. Dimitri kneels there, swaying a bit, unwilling to move or touch until he’s told to do so. 

Claude’s laugh is warm and aroused, and he draws Dimitri in with the simplest, lightest touch at the back of Dimitri’s neck. No need to force or pull; Dimitri is so eager, he leans forward and takes Claude in his mouth immediately. His cock is hard and warm, already wet at the tip, and Dimitri _moans_ around it. 

“Gods,” Claude breathes, starting to gently move his hips, fucking Dimitri’s eager, willing mouth. “You look so good like this. So hot.” His praise makes Dimitri’s cock throb, but all he cares about is doing this well, making Claude shudder and hoping he’ll do it well enough to earn Claude coming in his mouth. “Do you want to touch me?” 

Dimitri nods, or tries to. His hands are behind his back, and he wants to run them up Claude’s muscular thighs, draw him closer, try and make Claude use his mouth as he wants. 

“You may,” says Claude, smiling even though he’s breathing hard now and his green eyes are going blurry with arousal, pupils dilating. “Go ahead.” 

Dimitri runs his hands up Claude’s thighs, curves them around to pull him in. 

“Ah,” Claude says, understanding. “You want it harder?” 

Dimitri tries to nod again. 

Claude holds his head with both hands and fucks in and out of Dimitri’s mouth; Dimitri moans, losing himself in the pleasure of doing this, of choking on Claude’s cock when it goes deep and rubbing his tongue as best he can on the underside. 

“Felix, your king looks so good on his knees serving me, doesn’t he?” Claude asks, breathless tone not quite able to hide the hint of wickedness. 

“Yeah,” says Felix, his own voice husky. 

Claude touches him while Dimitri pleasures him with his mouth; plays with his hair, which is slipping out of the hasty ponytail, runs his fingers over Dimitri’s jaw, and then rubs his thumb over Dimitri’s lower lip so he can feel where it’s stretched around his cock. 

Claude’s hips move and Dimitri likes how he can feel the muscles in his thighs move as he fucks deeper into Dimitri’s mouth. Dimitri’s brain fizzes into gentle nothingness as he concentrates on sucking Claude off as best he can. His jaw aches, his knees hurt, and every gasp and moan of Claude’s makes him feel invincible, powerful. Like a king. 

“That’s it, oh, Dimitri, you’re so good at this, aren’t you? I -- ah, I bet you’d be beautiful naked and riding my cock,” Claude gasps, and it’s clear he’s getting closer. “Use your hand on me, there you go -- would you like that? Would you like to be on your hands and knees for me?” 

Dimitri moans around Claude’s cock, his hand going up to fondle his balls and stroke what he can’t with his mouth. 

“I bet you would,” Claude continues, and he has a remarkable ability to keep talking even when he’s close, which he must be; his cock is so hard in Dimitri’s mouth, and Dimitri can taste pre-come as he flicks his tongue over the head and sucks, hard. “You’d make me feel so good, wouldn’t you? Just like now, I’m close, you’re going to take it for me, swallow it all, aren’t you?” 

Dimitri can barely moan; all he can do is relax his throat and lean forward, and he does choke -- he can feel himself tearing up from it but he doesn’t stop, and his face is wet with sweat and now _tears_ , and when Claude sees that he throws his head back and moans, loudly, his thumb gently wiping over Dimitri’s cheek. 

Then he hooks his thumb on the inside of Dimitri’s cheek, like he’s making Dimitri lick his own salty tears off his skin and that’s enough to nearly make Dimitri come untouched in his trousers. But then _Claude_ comes, saying _yes,_ and _good, that’s so good,_ and then something in Almyran that Dimitri is way too out of it to translate. 

Then he comes in Dimitri’s mouth with a last hard push of his hips, and Dimitri chokes hard enough to nearly gag but he swallows it all anyway. When Claude pulls out, Dimitri drags in air to his starved lungs and can’t even be embarrassed by the sound he makes.   
Claude immediately is right there, kneeling in front of Dimitri, grabbing him and kissing him before Dimitri can fully regain his breath. He shoves his tongue in, licking at his own taste and something about that is so hot it makes Dimitri moan into Claude’s mouth as he puts his shaking hands behind his back again. 

“That was so good, Dimitri,” Claude says, when he pulls back. He makes Dimitri meet his gaze, his own bright, the pupils blown wide and the green a thin band around the black. Back at the monastery, Claude’s smiles never quite reached his eyes; this one certainly does, and it is _devastating._ “You did so good for me.” 

Dimitri, quiet and feeling settled, just blinks at him, leaning a bit forward. Felix sometimes likes his space after a scene, wanting to put himself together and enjoy his headspace. Dimitri likes the praise, wants to be touched gently, petted. Claude seems to understand that, and he takes Dimitri’s hair out of the ponytail and runs his fingers through it, over the back of his head, down his back and shoulders. 

Dimitri knows he should thank him, but when Claude gets back to his feet and draws Dimitri’s face in to press against his thigh, he doesn’t say anything at all. He thinks Claude must surely understand. 

“Well. I think his majesty deserves a reward for that, don’t you, Felix?” Claude asks, still petting him. “What do you think? You ready to come over here and join us?” 

***

It strikes Felix, somewhere in the slow, almost pleasant heat that rolls through him at the sight of Dimitri choking on the king of Almyra’s cock, that Claude is probably fucking with him. It hits him when the chain at his neck pulls taut and the globe scrapes an inch across the floor, with Felix on his knees and his face burning like a brand while Claude smiles at him, sure and soft and content. He jerks back, looks at the chain wrapped around the base of the globe, and scowls darkly.

Dimitri, pressed to Claude’s thigh with his good eye half-lidded, lazily tilts his head back as Claude gently kneads his hair. His face is tear stained, hair tousled as though he’s just come back from the training grounds, and Felix, who has never really been one for cuddling, desperately wants Dimitri over him. Cloaked, preferably, fur tickling Felix’s face, kissing him with a reverence reserved for better people, for the heroes the kingdom thinks they are.

“I asked you a question,” Claude says, with a note of warning. Felix tears his gaze from Dimitri.

“Do you want me to drag this,” he says. It’s not really a question. It isn’t an answer, either, though, and he sucks at his lip for a moment before he says, hoarsely, “Yes.”

“Then come. Leave the belt,” Claude says, when Felix’s brows lower, and Felix fumbles for the latch. The belt slides free, coiling on the rug like a snake, and Felix doesn’t even think to rise to his feet. He crawls, and he thinks it’s because it’s easier than shuffling, but when Claude’s eyes darken and Dimitri stares at him with open hunger, he knows that’s a lie. He stops less than a foot from Dimitri, and Claude idly digs his fingers in Felix’s hair, squeezes the roots tight.

“Do you think Dimitri has earned a reward, Felix?” he asks, in that low, amused voice. Felix’s tongue is heavy in his mouth. “Well?”

“Yeah,” Felix says, softly. Dimitri looks down at Felix’s hands flexing on his knees. 

“And why is that?” Claude asks. “What did he do to deserve it?”

Felix isn’t good at this. He’s never been good at this. It’s better when Dimitri just _knows_ , because he does, because he can translate the words Felix can’t say and pull meaning out of them, but Dimitri is breathing so softly and Claude is waiting and every instinct that Felix has ever hated within himself tugs him towards the truth.

“Of course he deserves it,” Felix says. Dimitri looks at him, then, and heat floods Felix’s face. Claude drags him closer, so that his nose bumps the other side of Claude’s hip. 

“Tell him why, Felix.”

“You’re… good,” Felix says, which isn’t enough. Not now. “You _try to_ be good. It’s deliberate, and you want it, and I.” He can’t say it. He raises a hand, but Claude hasn’t given him permission to touch, yet, and Dimitri has chosen this one moment not to look away. 

“Felix,” Claude says, with a smile to his voice that touches some heretofore untapped part of him that shivers at the thought of following orders, of being needed. Claude releases him and moves to kneel behind Dimitri, drawing his head back with the slightest touch. Dimitri leans against Claude’s chest, head tilted so that his unkempt hair brushes Claude’s cheek. “A true shield of the king knows how to bow to their monarch with the proper reverence.”

Felix’s breath catches. The last time he knelt like this, he’d been up to his knees in the mud of a killing ground, with Dimitri still battle-wild above him, the blood on his arms and side nearly black against the setting sun. He’d pressed his forehead to the earth, then, there in front of half their battalion, and had shivered at the touch of Dimitri’s hand in his hair, the sound of his rasping breaths.

Now, a lifetime gone from the war and what they’d found there, Felix bows before his king.

“That’s right,” Claude says, as Felix draws himself up just enough to see Claude urging Dimitri’s knees apart. He shuffles between them, catches Claude’s approving gaze, and tentatively touches Dimitri’s thighs. “Give him what he deserves. Show him how good you are, what you can be for him.”

Felix bows his head. His breath is hot, hair sticking to his cheeks and hanging in his mouth, and he turns to press a kiss to Dimitri’s thigh. Dimitri still has his hands behind his back, abs clenched with the effort of not putting too much weight on Claude, but Claude just snakes an arm around his chest and tugs him back with a jerk that pushes the breath right out of him. Dimitri goes boneless again, and Felix trails his lips up his inner thigh, mouthing over the front of his trousers. He’s painfully hard, Felix can tell, and he mouths at the tip, sucking a dark spot into the fabric. Dimitri groans, low and hoarse, and Felix looks up at him from under his lashes.

Then Dimitri blinks, startled, as Claude drags his hands down to cup his ass. He lifts him up off his knees, just for a moment, and Felix’s nose mashes against his stomach as Claude lets go to undo the buttons of Dimitri’s pants. He drags them down just enough to expose his cock, and smiles wickedly as he digs his nails into Dimitri’s ass. When he sets Dimitri down again, Dimitri looks like he’s already on the verge, glassy-eyed and gasping for it. Claude turns his chin to kiss him, open-mouthed and possessive, and guides Dimitri’s hand from behind his back to the top of Felix’s head. Felix bows again, breath puffing over Dimitri’s cock, and Claude twines his fingers in Dimitri’s to push Felix down over it. He chokes on it, just for a second, tries to stretch his jaw and relax his throat, and Dimitri makes a cut-off sound somewhere above him.

“Tell him how he feels,” Claude whispers. “Tell him how good he’s being for you.”

“You feel,” Dimitri’s voice is still rough at the edges, and Felix’s cock stirs at the memory of the tears rolling down Dimitri’s chin, the way Claude used his mouth, the fondness in Claude’s eyes. “So hot. So good, Felix, you’re always so good, even when you’re… pretending… not to—ah. _Ah_ , Felix, you—“

“He’s beautiful like this,” Claude says. Felix burns with it, closes his eyes to it, feels the weight of Dimitri’s cock on his tongue. Claude guides Dimitri’s hand, dragging Felix along his cock. “Taking you so well, like he’s made for it. Isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Dimitri gasps. He’s close, Felix knows, abs tensing as he tries to hold back. 

“I’d like to have him on a proper leash, one day,” Claude murmurs. “Something in black leather—“

“Set with amber,” Dimitri breathes, and Claude makes a pleased sound against his neck. Felix’s ears _burn._ “For his—his eyes—Cl—your majesty, may I please, please…”

“What the hell did I do to find you both?” Claude asks, and clenches his hand over Dimitri’s. He drags Felix off his cock, leaving him gasping, and withdraws his hand. “Hold him there.” 

Felix pants, head bowed, as Claude wraps his hand around Dimitri’s cock, deftly working him towards his release. He whispers in Dimitri’s ear, too soft for Felix to catch, and Dimitri’s hips buck forward as he comes over Felix’s face.

Felix is dimly aware that he should probably move, but no one has told him to, and he simply kneels there, half genuflecting between Dimitri’s knees. Claude whispers again, and Dimitri is—Dimitri lifts him by the shoulders and kisses him softly, even though Felix is a ragged mess with Dimitri’s come on his cheeks. It’s filthy, it should be filthy, but Felix melts into it anyways. 

Somehow, through the haze, Felix is led to the couch, where Claude props a foot on the cushions next to him and wipes off his face. He’s praising him through it, he thinks, useless words Felix won’t remember in the morning, but Felix tilts his head into his hand and actually smiles when Dimitri presses a chaste kiss to his neck. Claude stays with them for a while, lying back on the couch against Dimitri’s broad chest while Dimitri lets his hands wander, trailing over Claude’s arms, tentatively touching the tips of his hair. Felix slides off the couch to the floor—It feels better there, _right_ in a way he doesn’t need to examine, and leans his head on Claude’s leg. Claude idly plays with his hair as Felix drifts, listening to Dimitri’s halting voice above him.

“We should do this again,” Claude says.

Dimitri’s voice is a sigh. “Yes. We should.”

“Think about it first.” Claude’s voice is light, no weight of command to it at all, and Felix slits his eyes open. “Then let me know.”

They _do_ consider thinking it over, when Claude straightens his immaculate clothes and slips Felix the belt like some kind of favor at a tournament, letting the links clack in his palm. Dimitri plays with it while they lie in bed, running it through his fingers, and Felix slips between his arms to gently untie the eyepatch. Felix is still relaxed enough to admit to himself that Dimitri’s scarred eye is almost beautiful, pale and jagged as the gash of ice cracking over deep water, and he kisses Dimitri, weaving the strap of the eyepatch in his fingers. Dimitri smiles into the kiss, slow and sweet, and Felix draws back to watch him sigh against the pillow.

“I’ll go tell Claude,” he says.

“Mm?” Dimitri lifts his knuckles to Felix’s face. It’s hard not to deny himself this, not to turn away, but Felix lets him touch him gently, the way he wants to. 

“I’ll tell Claude we accept,” Felix says. “We’ll... do it again. It was good for you.”

“Not for you, though, hm?” Dimitri teases, and Felix can feel the blush crawling up his neck. 

“I’ll be back.” Felix rolls off the bed, prompting a whine of protest from Dimitri—the man is a fucking lamprey, sometimes—and makes his way to the door. He steps barefoot into the hall, idly brushing his hair back from his face yet again, and lets the cold bite of a spring evening temper him. He barely remembers the long path to the guest suites, and he raises his fist to thump the heavy wooden door, once, twice—

He stops, suddenly, as the sound of his knuckles on the door echoes down the dark hall. He remembers, with a swoop of horror, that it is currently past midnight and he, Duke Felix Fraldarius, is currently in a nightshirt with his hair down and his bare feet smarting on the tiles.

He jerks his hand back, but it’s too late. The door is already swinging open, and Felix swallows an urgent sound of distress as the ground, despite whatever fervent prayers Felix may be sending in that moment, refuses to swallow him whole.

Claude Von Riegan—no, Felix thinks, frantically, in a desperate bid to cling to anything but the realization of where he is at that moment, King Khalid—apparently sleeps in the nude, because his toned, well-built form is perfectly illuminated by the fire. There are barely visible scars up his arms—wyvern claws, Felix thinks—and his hair is a rumpled mess. There’s a mark on his neck Felix is fairly sure he hasn’t seen before, and—

“Is that _Felix_?” Hilda crows from behind Claude. Felix just sees Hilda rise from the bed behind him, her hair also a bit of a mess, nightgown pushed down to reveal her breasts. Felix quickly looks away. “What did you _do_ to him, Claude?”

“Felix,” Claude says, in greeting, and Felix resists the urge to tug his nightshirt further down his thighs. 

“I—I’ll go,” Felix says. “I. Didn’t realize.”

“It’s like fuck-off in the morning, Felix,” Hilda calls. She still hasn’t adjusted her nightgown. “Looking cute, though. Love the hair.”

Felix hurriedly twists his hair back with one hand, and Claude, who looks more amused than annoyed, steps forward and cups the back of Felix’s neck. The pressure steadies him, a little, even if he’s _still_ reasonably mortified.

“Come in,” Claude says. His voice sounds thick with sleep. “Must be cold.”

“It will be in here soon enough,” Hilda says, pointedly looking at the door. Claude tugs Felix forward a step, towards the fire, and Felix glances down, trying not to linger on Claude’s bare, muscled thighs.

Claude notices anyways. Of course. He tilts Felix’s head up and examines his face. “You came here for a reason, Felix.”

“Yes, I. We can discuss it… later, when you aren’t…”

Hilda snorts and leans back in bed, dragging half the covers with her. Claude barely flicks a glance her way, but he’s smiling out of the corner of his mouth, and it reminds Felix a little of Dimitri when they’re alone, the soft looks he sends Felix’s way when he thinks he isn’t paying attention. Something in his chest constricts at the thought, and Felix pushes it down.

“We accept your proposal,” Felix says. “Both of us.”

“And here I thought Dimitri was eager,” Claude whispers. He angles his body towards the fire, blocking out most of the room behind him, and runs a thumb over Felix’s mouth. Felix’s lips part slightly, but when Claude doesn’t lean in to kiss him, he wonders if he’s reading this wrong, if he _did_ overstep by coming here so soon. Claude shrugs a shoulder.

“Nowhere people can see, right?”

“She’s not people,” Felix says.

“Wow,” Hilda drawls. “Gee. Thanks.”

“I mean she knows.” Felix narrows his eyes at Claude. “I expect she knows.”

“Doesn’t seem to bother you,” Claude says. “She won’t say anything, if you’re worried.”

Oddly enough, Felix… isn’t. Not about this. And he isn’t sure how to feel about that yet. But when Claude runs his hand around Felix’s neck and draws him closer, Felix’s breath hitches enough for Claude to hear. He grins, almost wicked in the firelight.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says, and when he kisses Felix this time, it’s slow and deep and lingering. He gives into it, lets him lazily explore his mouth, and makes a sound that could almost be a moan when Claude rucks up his shirt and slides a hand behind his lower back. He pulls them flush together, just for a moment, and trails his lips along Felix’s jaw to bite below his ear. 

“I look forward to having you on your back for me,” he whispers, and Felix closes his eyes for half a second before forcing them open again. Claude kisses him one more time, just for good measure, and runs his hands through Felix’s hair before he steps away. “Tell the king we’ll meet after the talks tomorrow. At your leisure, of course.”

“Yes,” Felix says, still a little dazed. He struggles to pull himself together, and Claude grins. “Of course. Thank you.” He steps back and bows shortly, and quickly makes a break for the door. “Good night.”

“Night,” Claude says.

“Cute butt, too,” Hilda calls, as the door swings shut, leaving Felix yet again barefoot and alone in the hall.

He considers screaming. Probably not the best plan, all in all, so he settles with marching back to Dimitri’s suites and flinging open the door, a half-hard, disheveled wreck of a noble glowering on a three hundred year old rug. Dimitri sits up in bed, blinking dully.

“ _Why did you let me leave,_ ” Felix snarls.

Dimitri squints. “Leave? I thought you were, I don’t know, getting…” his face goes slack. “You didn’t.”

“You could have stopped me,” Felix says, as Dimitri’s shoulders start to shake. He climbs onto the bed, stripping off his shirt as he goes, and Dimitri rolls over him, wrapping him in his arms. “Don’t smother me, you _oaf_ —“

“Since when can I ever stop you?” Dimitri asks, crouched over him at the edge of the bed, grinning like a fool. He kisses Felix, trembling with suppressed laughter, and Felix groans. 

“Please,” Dimitri says, beaming as he peppers kisses down Felix’s bare neck. “Please, for the love of all that’s holy, tell me _everything._ ”


	4. peace talks

The thing about peace negotiations that no one will ever talk about is how they’re kind of boring. Better than a war, for sure. 

Claude’s not against solving issues through discussions, given that this was his plan all along, before Edelgard decided to solve all of Fodlan’s admittedly many issues with an axe and a grudge. 

_See, Princess, sometimes talking things out is the best, and doesn’t end with you losing your head. Or however you met your end._ He’s never asked for the details on how that whole thing went down; he and Edelgard were never close, but he’s still sad about how it all ended. Even if she sort of did start it. 

You can’t just swing your axe and make people like each other, you have to put in the _work_. And that involves a lot of listening to people talk who should probably just sit down and be quiet already, Margrave Gautier. 

Claude really wishes it were Sylvain here, instead; but Sylvain is not yet the Margrave and is off somewhere with Mercedes, probably having way more fun. Margrave Gautier also keeps calling Claude ‘your grace’ instead of ‘your majesty’, which is -- of course -- intended as an insult. 

It’s Felix who snaps out, “Margrave Gautier, there is only one duke attending these negotiations, and that is me. Do not insult the King of Faerghus by insulting an honored guest in his own hall. You know the correct form of address for a king. See that you use it.” Proving that while he might be a submissive, Felix takes his role as Shield of the King seriously. 

“Thank you, Duke Fraldarius, for that reminder,” Dimitri says, from his place at the head of the table. He’s wearing his royal regalia, including that great furred cloak that looks so warm, Claude kind of wants to demand he hand it over so he can burrow in it. His own royal attire is suited to Almyra, and he’s spending a lot of his energy trying not to visibly shiver. 

Honestly, with all the hot air these nobles are spewing, he’s amazed the room isn’t sweltering. 

The talks go as well as Claude figures they would for the first day. At least the Faerghus nobility are suspicious of everyone equally, including the former Alliance _and_ the Adrestians. And Claude was the one who came up with that pincer attack at Derdriu. If anything wins over Faerghans, it’s clever military strategy that wins battles. 

“It’s too bad Teach isn’t here,” Claude says, when they take a break for refreshments. Hilda is pressed up close to his side, which is mostly because she’s cold and less because she’s feeling particularly affectionate. 

“Where is he, again?” Hilda asked. 

“According to Ashe, he went on some adventure with -- get this, remember Professor Jeritza?” 

“The sword professor? With the poor taste in accessories? I mean, who wears a plain white _mask_? It’s not like it did anything to hide his face!” 

Claude snorts and sips his wine. “That’d be him.” 

“Wait, wait, he’s the _Death Knight_. Was the Death Knight? Is that a thing you can retire from being?” 

“No idea. But Ashe told me at breakfast this morning that Teach and Professor Death Knight fought each other and it was all epic, but Teach spared his life after he found out he was Mercedes’ little brother. He took Jeritza back to Garreg Mach and I guess spent all this time with him, and now Jeritza has a collar and they’re off fighting some weird shadow organization that lives underground? Little iffy on that part.” 

“Of course. Only the professor would collar the Death Knight.” Hilda shakes her head. “I always knew he was intense. Do you think he makes Jeritza wear that mask in bed?” 

“You mean the white one, or the one with the horns and glowing red eyes?” 

“Oh. Huh.” Hilda thinks about this. “Either? Actually, don’t answer that. I suddenly don’t want to think about it anymore.” 

After their break, they go back to it. Claude finds it interesting to watch Dimitri navigate the council of attendant nobles, the way he listens and never calls anyone’s contributions stupid or insulting, even when they’re both of those things. Felix, on the other hand, retains his lack of tact and uses it when necessary, usually by snapping _please stop wasting his majesty’s time_. 

The person who really keeps them on track is Dedue, whose calm voice and imposing stature -- and obvious dominance -- keeps anyone from getting too rowdy. Dimitri therefore comes across as a king willing to allow his council to have a voice, Felix’s prickly nature decidedly on Dimitri’s behalf and therefore perfectly appropriate for both the second-highest-ranking noble in the kingdom _and_ the king’s collared submissive. 

Submissive doesn’t mean _doormat_ , which, well, if anyone in Faerghus thought it did, Felix has neatly disabused them of that particular notion. 

Claude’s always preferred to battle with his wits rather than his arrows, though some of these people make him long for the familiar curves of Failnaught in his hand. Or at least an arrow to twirl. Maybe one of Hilda’s hand axes. 

Admittedly, his attention begins to wane as of the nobles starts going on about imposing strict rules for “travel between nations” (which sounds a lot like the opposite of what they’re trying to do, here) by use of some terrible metaphor in which he’s relating Almyran borders to a story about a valiant knight and some kind of magic forest filled with man-eating wolves, which is maybe supposed to be Galatea, only Ingrid looks about as confused as Claude feels, so maybe not. 

What he gets is basically _I am afraid of change and people who do not look like me_ , so in the interest of international cooperation Claude doesn’t say that outright like he would with his own court, choosing instead to remember how Dimitri looked leaning against him, panting while Felix sucked him. The way it felt to stroke Dimitri’s slick cock and watch him come all over Felix’s pretty face. 

The thought of doing it again, later. Tonight. Fucking one of them, both of them? Watching them fuck each other. Claude isn’t usually one for indulging in sex fantasies when he’s trying to work, but he’s also completely lost the thread of this noble’s story and would rather think about bending the king of Faerghus over a sofa and fucking him while he sucks off the duke. 

“...And do you see the delicacy of the situation, then? We must protect the forest, less the wolves come from the fog and curse the land with their fetid breath.” The noble bows at Claude. “No offense, King Khalid.” 

“None taken,” says Claude. _Because I have no idea what you’re talking about_. “Since I’m sure you’re not calling my countrymen a bunch of furry wolves with bad breath.” 

Someone hides a laugh in a cough. Claude is pretty sure it’s Dimitri. 

“And, like, have you _been_ to Almyra? It’s not really known for fog, not the part that borders Fodlan, anyway. The giant birds are more of a nuisance than the wolves, too.” Hilda yawns, entirely on purpose, and Claude wishes he could give her the literal world for being the absolute best wife, ever.

“I’m afraid I have not been there, no, Lady Hilda,” says the noble. 

“She’s a _queen_ , you call her _your majesty_ ,” Felix snaps. “This isn’t hard.” 

“Since our king has no queen, it’s difficult to remember the protocol,” smarms the Margrave, and wow, Claude really hates that guy. No wonder Sylvain took off with Mercedes and wants nothing to do with his family. Claude honestly wants nothing to do with him, either. 

“Your king has no patience for rudeness,” says Dimitri, voice hard. It’s the same tone he used to shout out orders in battle. What it lacks in natural dominance, it makes up for by reminding you this man was a military general responsible for winning a continent-wide war. 

“Perhaps we have reached a stopping point,” says Dedue, politely. There is plenty of natural dominance in _his_ voice. 

“A wise idea, as always, Dedue,” says Dimitri, rising to his feet. “We’ll adjourn for the day.” 

It’s a nifty little dance, really. All the attendant nobles will remember Dimitri ending the talks for without noting the lack of natural dominance in his tone as he did it. 

Claude and Hilda both rise, and Claude watches with ill-disguised amusement as these nobles -- who have been talking around their own xenophobia and self-interests all day -- bow to him and Hilda. 

At least Ingrid, who approaches when the gathering breaks up, has some sense. “There aren’t any wolves in Galatea, I’m sorry, I have no idea what that was about.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re very eager to open our borders, King Cla--ah. King Khalid. My apologies.” She bows. 

“It’s fine,” Claude says with a smile. “You always knew me as Claude, right?” 

“Did I?” Ingrid asks, blunt as ever. “I don’t think I knew you at all.” 

Claude grins at her, with teeth. “Are you gonna lecture me about it? I missed those.” 

“Ugh.” Ingrid’s mouth eases into a smile. “You’re awful, whatever your name is now. I hope you learned how to pick up your books.” 

“Nope,” says Hilda. 

Claude ignores her. “I did, and I still do meditate in the morning -- I wasn’t lying about that, you know.” 

Ingrid starts smiling at that. “It’s good to see you again. You, too, Hilda. Oh, I mean, your majesty.” She bows. 

Hilda used to think Ingrid was a bossy busybody back at school, which is funny, considering Hilda was also sort of both of those things. But the bow and deference is enough to make her smile -- well, that and the part where Hilda, like the rest of them, grew up. “You, too. Your hair’s cute like that. How’s Dorothea?” 

While Ingrid and Hilda catch up, Claude notices that Dimitri is starting to look a little frayed around the edges. Claude’s had to temper his own nature in various ways about a thousand times, he knows it’s exhausting. And while he’s never had to pretend to be a submissive, his natural dominance wasn’t always a facet of his personality that people wanted to see. 

It makes him think about the meandering story about wolves and their bad breath, and honestly, when it’s Claude’s turn to host these talks, he’s going to tell his council to refrain from using a single metaphor when trying to make a point. It’s not like they don’t have equally nonsensical stories in Almyra. 

Which, he likes the idea of that, he realizes. Having Dimitri and Felix in Almyra will be both a historic event and, provided things go well tonight (and Claude is most certainly looking forward to making sure that they do), should be way more enjoyable than anticipated when they first discussed these talks over letters. 

Claude walks over to Dimitri after Dedue leaves to find Ashe, and gives him a nod. “Your majesty. I promise we won’t send giant wolves into Galatea. Cursed or otherwise.” 

Dimitri huffs a laugh. “I apologize for Lord Mieri. I was hoping his daughter would come instead, she’s in line to take over their house and most of my correspondence has been with her. I’m rather surprised he made the trip, given his age.” 

“I’m surprised he got here, given I don’t think he’s ever seen a map,” says Claude. “He...does know that Galatea doesn’t border Almyra, right?” 

“He can’t even _spell_ Almyra,” says Felix, standing at Dimitri’s side. 

“Maybe you should send him that globe in your library,” Claude says, a little slyly, just to see Felix’s eyes go wide and the tips of his ears turn red. 

“Ah,” says Dimitri, adorably flustered. “I would, but I’m rather fond of it.” Then he adds, “It was my grandfather’s.” 

“ _Dimitri_ ,” Felix groans. He stares up at the high ceilings with the wooden beams. He sighs. “I could have told you that entendres are lost on him, Claude. He doesn’t get them.” 

“Well I’m not going to _lie_ , Felix. I was fond of it _before_ Claude leashed you to it with his -- oh, Hilda, hello.” 

Claude can’t quite catch his snort of laughter as Hilda sort of stares at Dimitri, clearly trying to decide if she should bother asking or not. She glances at Claude, shrugs, and says, “I’m heading back up to our room where there’s a fire, and also my favorite thing about this entire country...the bedding.” 

Dimitri beams, as if her complimenting the accommodations has made him unbearably happy and honestly, it probably has. “I’m pleased they’re to your liking.” 

Felix sighs slightly. 

“I’ll come with you,” says Claude, but he gives Dimitri a small smile and says quietly, “And I’ll see _you_ in about an hour, Your Majesty.” 

“Yes, I -- yes, that’s -- all right,” says Dimitri, who then bows to _him_ and lowers his gaze as he does it. “We’ll expect you, then.” 

Claude can’t help the little thrill that gives him, having a king -- and fearsome warrior -- submitting to him, eagerly, and wanting more. He looks at Felix, who is staring off to the side, arms crossed, and it’s hard to tell if he’s annoyed or amused by Dimitri’s eagerness...maybe both. He’s sort of like that, Felix. 

“They’re both so into you,” Hilda says, when they’re in their room. She stripped off her clothes and dove right under the fur blankets, rolling herself up in them so she’s nothing but tufts of pink hair and big pink eyes staring at him from amidst all the fur. 

“Aww. You look like a kitten that got stuck in a rug.” Claude starts taking off his formal regalia, starting with the sash around his waist. 

“How have you seduced a king _and_ a duke in like, literally less than forty-eight hours with lines like that?” She makes a face at him. It’s honestly even cuter.

“Don’t forget, I totally banged a queen in that time, too,” he says, with a wink. 

“Beginning to question how you lucked into that, too,” says Hilda, but she smiles. “So you’re going to go fuck them both or what?” 

Claude thinks about this. “I’m not sure we’ve worked out the details.” He tosses his coat, sash and cravat on the chair and strips out of his shirt, leaving him in a sleeveless undershirt and trousers. Much better. He grabs a simple tunic and shrugs into it. 

“You’re not really wearing that tunic with those pants and those boots, are you?” 

“I like the boots. Felix likes them,” Claude says, with a grin. “You don’t think they make me look sexy?” 

“You always look sexy, but right now you look like you got dressed in the dark. But I’ve seen Felix, so maybe that’s Dimitri’s type.” 

“You saw him at two in the morning, in a nightshirt, after I’d put them both under pretty hard.” Fuck, even just saying that makes Claude’s heart race in anticipation.

“I was talking about _today_ , but okay.” Hilda stares at him consideringly. “Take off the tunic, take off that undershirt, put the formal dress shirt back on, leave the first three buttons undone. Put on the other pair of pants --” 

“I wore those on a wyvern,” Claude interrupts. 

“No, the _other_ other ones. Put those on with the dress shirt and then those boots.” 

“This seems unnecessary,” Claude says, but he pulls off the tunic and takes off his undershirt. 

Hilda wolf-whistles and then adds, “Look the part, baby. Trust me, they’ll appreciate it. And I just don’t think puffy pants scream _I’m here to put you on your knees_ , even though if anyone could pull it off, it’d be you.” 

Claude shakes his head at her, sitting on the edge of the chair to take his boots off. “It worked the last time.” 

“Khalid Claude von Riegan, would you just listen to me!” 

They don’t use surnames in Almyra but it always makes him smile, how she smashes all those names together just to yell at him properly. “Always, my star.” 

Claude puts on the trousers, pulls his formal boots back on, then shrugs into his shirt and leaves it unbuttoned as instructed. He takes off all of his jewelry save his wedding ring and the pendant he always wears, and then turns to his wife and holds his arms out. “Well? Do I pass your inspection, Queen Hilda?” 

“Hmm. Turn around.” She extracts one hand from her blanket cocoon and does a little twirl with her finger. 

Claude turns around, then waits for her verdict. 

She pats the bed beside her. “Now come here.” 

“You are so bossy.” He sits on the edge of the bed as instructed, watching in amusement as she wriggles about in the furs so she can get up on her knees. She runs her fingers through his hair, tousling it, then smiles and pulls him in to kiss him. “Now put on that cologne I got you, and go fuck them _up_ , baby.” She holds her fist out. 

Claude fistbumps her, and goes to find the cologne. He catches sight of himself in the mirror, and as weird as he thought this ensemble was, it’s not bad -- but he says, “I look like the hero in one of Bernadetta von Varley’s novels she thinks no one knows she writes.” 

“I know. Where do you think I got my inspiration from?” Hilda curls back up in the furs. 

Claude returns to the bed and kisses her again. “I love you, you bossy, gorgeous creature. You sure this is okay?” 

“I’m sorry, since when do I repeat myself?” She smiles against his mouth, kissing him back until he’s dizzy with it. 

He really _is_ a lucky man, and he’s about to get even luckier. 

***

It’s snowing again.

The sunroof over Dimitri’s sitting room is shaped like a blooming flower, with iron and stone weaving between the thick, fogged glass, and the snow on the roof is starting to stick again, building in soft lumps that threaten to overtake the window like a cloud crawling across the plains. Snow deadens all sound, muffling the city as its citizens disappear into their homes to ride out another storm, and when Dimitri pulls his best tea service out of the glass case, he recalls watching snow drift across the floor of his cell, a lifetime ago.

 _It could kill you like this_ , he’d thought then, shoulders braced on the wall against the bitter cold. _Softly. Deceptively. Laying you to bed like a lover_. 

Now, with no distant voices of the unquiet dead to fill the empty space, the silence of the snow is almost pleasant.

He sets out the tea service on the table, checks on the kettle, and examines the placement of the chairs. Most submissives would sit on the floor, but he and Felix are a little… relaxed, on their own. The signs of Felix’s presence in particular are everywhere in the royal suites, in worn spots on the couch arm where he props up his elbow while he reads, to the chaise where he’s kicked the polish off the wooden frame, to the curtains with—yes. With the distinct marks of a cat’s claws on the fringe. Felix claims that the enormous forest cat with a lion’s mane of grey fur isn’t his, but Dimitri’s, but it’s a poor lie, since she’s currently asleep in Felix’s drawer of clean shirts and hasn’t so much as opened an eye to acknowledge Dimitri’s presence. 

The kettle is starting to boil by the time the main door to the suite opens, and Dimitri nearly drops a spoon as he considers, in a moment of panic, whether this is Claude and he should already be on his knees. Except it’s Felix, his jacket slung over one arm, unbuttoning his shirt with the other, sweaty and winded from yet another round of drills in the practice courts.

“He’ll be here any minute, you know,” Dimitri says, as Felix looks down at the tea service, rolls his eyes, and breezes past.

“I know that.”

“I can’t promise that your bathwater won’t be miserably cold by now,” Dimitri says, even though it isn’t, because he ran the taps ten minutes ago. Felix gives him an arch look over his shoulder and heads to their private bathroom, where he’s promptly enveloped in a billow of steam.

“Hell’s teeth, Dimitri!”

“I’m not presenting a barbarian to the king of Almyra,” Dimitri shouts back. There’s a slosh of water, and a muffled curse.

“Yeah? Plan on hiding in the curtains when he gets here?” 

“Can’t hear you, love,” Dimitri shouts back. There’s a slap of feet on tile, then the door slams shut. Dimitri laughs and takes out the crystal teapot, which he reserves for special occasions, and digs in the tea cabinet below for a roll of the blooming Almyran Pine. He vaguely recalls Claude drinking that in the monastery, and this particular blend is meant to be seen, blooming in the water like a rose.

Felix emerges from the bath far too early, hastily scrubbed pink and stepping into a pair of—

“No,” Dimitri says. “You were just wearing those.”

“They’re nice,” Felix says, buttoning his trousers. He opens the drawer, sees his cat sleeping there, and closes it again. “I’m borrowing one of your shirts.”

“You might as well be naked if you’re going to put on that old shirt with the buttons—Yes, I know what you’re looking for, and it’s gone, Felix, I’ve spirited it away.”

Felix sighs and abandons his search. He walks bare-chested across the room, still gleaming slightly with steam from the baths, and crouches down to untie Dimitri’s cloak.

“Wait,” Dimitri says. “Hold on.”

“It’s not even your best one,” Felix says. He whips the cloak off Dimitri’s shoulders before he can object, and swings it around his own. If it weren’t for the fact that Dimitri had planned what he would wear to Claude’s visit practically six hours in advance, Dimitri would have to admit that Felix looks nice like this, with the light trim of fur at the collar, thick blue folds hanging about his shoulder and brushing his thighs.

“Treason,” Dimitri says. Felix almost smiles. “For heavens’ sake, Felix, just put on something respectable.”

“Why?” Felix throws himself into the chair Dimitri had reserved specifically for Claude. “He’ll only have them off again.”

“A shirt at least,” Dimitri says, half pleading, and Felix looks down at his fine clothes and the polished tabletop that he _knows_ wasn’t seen to by any of the maids, and turns to the bedroom with a sigh.

He’s still wearing the cloak when Claude arrives, but at least he’s somewhat dressed, and he’s allowed Dimitri to braid back his damp hair. It’s the best Dimitri can hope for, under the circumstances.

Claude knocks like an afterthought, this time, already a foot through the door by the time his knuckles slide across the wood. Dimitri stands, caught between the decorum required for one king to greet another, and the overwhelming urge to drop to his knees and bow his head. Felix snorts from where he’s claimed Claude’s seat yet again, and doesn’t bother to rise.

“Claude,” he says, and tries not to wince at the way that sounds, as though he’s surprised to find him there. “Thank you for coming. Would you…” He colors, briefly, as the question dies in his throat. It’s customary for guests to remove their boots at the door, and Dimitri isn’t sure if he should comment on it, or ignore it, or possibly offer to get to his knees and take off his boots for him. He decides against it—Claude looks immaculately put-together, almost the vague, dashing figure that cut a swathe through Dimitri’s early fantasies, and Dimitri bows instead. “I have tea prepared, allow me—“

“Indulge him, your majesty,” Felix drawls. “Tea is a thing. He’ll be insufferable otherwise.”

Claude chuckles a little at that, and when Dimitri kneels to fill the teapot, he skirts the table to lay a hand in Dimitri’s hair. “Thank you,” he says, in a low, smooth voice that has a shiver coursing down Dimitri’s neck. “That’s very good of you. Is that Almyran Pine?”

“I thought. Yes,” Dimitri says, flushing a little at the compliment. “I recall you had a taste for it, before.” He sets the tea in the water and gives Felix a pointed look. For once, Felix obeys, sliding out of the chair to stand off to the side, wrapped in Dimitri’s cloak. Claude settles in the chair as though he’s lived there his whole life, perfectly at ease. 

Dimitri sighs. It’s a little haphazard, perhaps, but Felix isn’t shirtless, the tea is blooming, and Claude is smiling at him, head tilted back, seemingly content to be served. 

“Here, Felix,” Claude says, when Dimitri has arranged the tray before Claude, just the way he does when the council is running him ragged and Felix has to sigh and sprawl there like a wounded cat while Dimitri tries to dote on him. Felix moves for his usual seat, and Claude _tuts_ , gestures to the floor at his feet. “Dimitri, if you could strip Felix before the tea is done.”

Dimitri glances at the tea, which is already steeping, and gets to his feet. The saucers rattle as he moves—he can’t _help_ it, he never _could_ walk cat-quiet like Felix—and Felix turns on him, lips parted, before Dimitri grabs the cloak by the pins.

“Told you,” Felix whispers, and Dimitri struggles to suppress a smile. Felix wants this, even with his face burning and his eyes narrowed, and Claude watches them with his chin propped on his hand as Dimitri lets the cloak slither to the floor.

“Don’t help him,” Claude orders, when Felix raises his hands to his shirt. Felix clenches his jaw, and Dimitri makes quick work of his shirt, exposing his scarred back, his powerful shoulders, the lean build of a true swordsman coming together under his fingers. When he drops to his knees to unbutton Felix’s pants, Felix rolls his eyes at Dimitri’s triumphant grin.

When Felix is stripped bare, already half hard from this alone, Claude crosses his legs and leans back.

“Well done, Dimitri,” he says, and Dimitri can’t help the thrill he feels at that, with Felix practically panting above him. “Felix, at my feet. I’d say the tea’s about ready to be served.”

***  
Well, isn’t this just a _delight_. 

Honestly, Claude can’t remember a tea time he’s enjoyed more. Certainly not any at the monastery, with the exception of maybe tea with Teach. Professor Byleth wasn’t much of a talker but he was a good listener, and he always had Claude’s favorite tea, too. But he never stripped naked at Claude’s feet, either. 

Claude runs his fingers over Felix’s hair and smiles at the braid. He would bet his throne that Felix let Dimitri put his hair up, so he doesn’t take it out. 

“Dimitri, pour the tea and then you can kneel, too.” Claude strokes Felix’s hair some more. “Would you like to know what I want to do to you both, this evening?” 

“Ah,” Dimitri says, smiling, as he pours the tea with such careful precision that Claude actually feels a stirring of warmth in his chest at how _happy_ Dimitri seems to be just serving tea. “I would, of course, if you want to tell us.” He’s shifting the cups and saucers around, as if making sure the presentation is _just so_ is the most important part of the whole thing. It’s kind of adorable, really. 

Felix tilts his head back as Claude pets his hair, at least until he seems to realize he’s doing it and sits straight up again.

“You fight so much,” Claude says, reaching down to tilt Felix’s head back with his fingers under Felix’s chin. “Is that just how you like it?” 

Felix has such pretty eyes, even when half-narrowed in an attempted glare. “It’s just how they made me.” 

That makes Claude laugh. “I don’t mind, I just wondered. I’m used to it.”

“Your people in Almyra, they fight you a lot, then?” Felix asks, in that sharp voice of his. 

“Nah, they love me,” Claude says cheerfully, taking his cup from Dimitri. He winks at Felix. “I was talking about all the wyverns I’ve broken to the saddle, actually.” He laughs outright at the look he gets for that, but he doesn’t miss the way Felix’s eyes go wide and a little soft, and the sharp inhale of breath. 

Claude sips his tea, making an appreciative sound at the deliciously bitter flavor. “This is good, Dimitri, thank you.” Dimitri’s pleased little smile is both adorable and attractive. “I’m going to give you both what you need, don’t worry. Dimitri, you need a good hard fuck and Felix, I think the idea of being roughed up really does it for you, yeah?” 

“Some master tactician,” Felix says, but lacking in heat enough that even Claude knows he’s probably teasing. 

“It doesn’t really take a master tactician to figure that out, not when you moaned so pretty when I smacked you,” Claude says, and pats Felix on the side of the face. “Now be quiet and drink your tea.” 

Felix looks pleased enough as he picks up his own teacup, so Claude turns his attention to Dimitri; who is being so very patient, kneeling and re-arranging the tea service while he waits for Claude’s attention. “Was I right, Dimitri? Do you want to be fucked hard?” 

It’s amazing to watch Dimitri -- broad-shouldered and imbued with centuries of royal lineage, the victor of a battle not only with the Empire but with the ghosts of his own past, kneel for Claude and _blush_. Claude can hardly believe it, but he’s never been one to deny an opportunity when it presents itself. 

“I would like that, yes,” says Dimitri, to his teacup. 

“Look at me and tell me you want me to fuck you hard, then.” Claude wants to see Dimitri’s face, the blush on his cheeks. 

Dimitri’s lovely, deep voice saying, “I would like that, yes,” goes straight to Claude’s cock. He’s just so earnest about it. 

Claude leans forward, closer, still playing with Felix’s hair. “You’d like what, your majesty?” 

Ah, there’s that blush of Dimitri’s. “For you to fuck me, hard. Please,” he adds, eagerly, and while he might be blushing, he says it without hesitating. He really is hard up for it, isn’t he? 

Claude smiles and reaches down to casually rub his thumb over the top of Felix’s collar. “Tell me something, are you the only one who has one of these?” 

Felix startles, glancing up at him before his eyes fly to Dimitri. Dimitri stares at his teacup again. 

Claude sighs. “Nothing that happens in here will leave this room -- well, I’ll probably tell Hilda, but you know what I mean. This isn’t about our peace talks, or my gaining the advantage in some way, all right? Think of it as strengthening the bonds of our international friendship if you want, but mostly I want to put you both under. So, again -- Felix, are you the only one who wears a collar?” 

Claude puts all the weight of his natural dominance in his voice, and it’s a testament to Felix’s utter loyalty that he fights it long enough for Dimitri to give the slightest incline of his head. Few things get Claude going as much as loyalty. He’s going to make sure that Felix is appropriately rewarded for it, too. 

“No,” Felix says softly, staring down at the floor, teacup forgotten on the table. “I’m not.” 

Claude tips Felix’s chin up again and smiles his approval. “I thought so. Go get it for me.” 

Felix goes to stand up, but Claude presses a hand on his shoulder and says, “Crawl, and bring it bring back to me like a good pet.” 

Felix glares, but there’s no denying that his cock gets hard and he clearly likes the idea of being forced to crawl; and Claude certainly likes watching him do it. Felix is so graceful, muscles shifting as he stalks like a cat toward what Claude assumes is the bedroom. 

“Hilda was right,” Claude calls after him. “You do have a cute butt.” 

Felix says something that Claude can’t hear, but he can imagine well enough. He laughs and turns to Dimitri, who’s watching Felix crawl with a mix of hunger and appreciation. Claude lets him watch until Felix disappears around the corner. “Can you tell me what your limits are, Dimitri?” 

“I would prefer if you did not make any sort of threat about taking my other eye,” he says, immediately. 

Claude’s stomach gives a sick twist at the thought. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Yes, I didn’t -- didn’t think you would, necessarily, but you did ask. And I would prefer not to have to...hurt you. ” Dimitri’s fingers cradle his teacup. He has such big hands. All of him is big, Claude remembers very well. So much strength, enough to shoulder a fledgling nation and all the tiresome business of post-war unification. Dimitri really is a remarkable man. 

“What about with Felix?” Claude asks, the plan forming in his mind as he thinks about what he’s going to do. Dimitri wants to serve, Felix wants to be made to submit, and Claude is more than up to the challenge of giving them both what they need. 

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Dimitri says, softly, his eyes going to the door where Felix disappeared. “I know he likes things rough, but I’ve hurt him enough.” 

Claude’s eyebrows go up, mind racing. This is, of course, the issue -- Felix wants it to hurt, to overwhelm him, to make it a fight he can finally give up and lose. Lose to Dimitri, specifically. Dimitri, convinced he’s hurt Felix enough for a lifetime, just wants to touch him with all the reverence he feels for him. 

They’re cute. Very in love. And Claude can definitely handle this. He finishes his tea and motions to Dimitri, who shuffles over on his knees and looks around to make sure he doesn’t bump anything off the table. The way he is so careful about his strength is both endearing and very telling. 

When he’s kneeling in front of him, Claude leans around him to put his teacup on the table, then draws Dimitri in with a hand on the back of his neck. “Will you trust me to help you give Felix what he wants? I’ll be in charge, and I’ll make sure it’s not too much. Just let me handle you and I’ll make it so good for you both. All right?” 

Dimitri blinks, then nods. “I will.” 

“Thank you,” Claude says, and kisses him. “If you need to stop, you just can tell me, and we’ll stop. All right? I’ll tell Felix the same.” 

Dimitri smiles against Claude’s mouth. “For all the good that will do. He’ll never ask you to.” 

Claude kisses him until he catches sight of Felix coming back, crawling, and the collar in his mouth is a thick leather -- the kind you’d use on a hunting dog, maybe, with a heavy loop on it. Felix looks ridiculously good crawling; strands of his hair that have escaped his braid are hanging in his face, scarred skin lovely in the dreamy afternoon light. 

“He’s beautiful,” Claude says, to Dimitri, as they watch him crawl with feline grace back to the table. 

“He is,” Dimitri says, with so much obvious affection in his voice that it makes Claude smile. “I am very lucky.” 

Felix’s eyes narrow and he makes the exact sound a cat would, if you dared pet it while it was napping. He crawls over and then sits on his heels, giving Claude a look that says _well_? Felix is glowering and Dimitri is beaming at him, and they’re both kneeling -- it’s enough to make Claude think the luckiest person in the room is actually _him_. 

“Felix. Dimitri is overdressed. Fix that for me and put that collar on him,” Claude says, leaning back against his chair with a grin. “Entertain me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dusty: "I'm putting Bylitza in here, even though it's Azure Moon." 
> 
> Fae: "Live your best life, Dusty."


	5. agreement

It’s fortunate for Felix that, just as a dozen sharp retorts threaten to rise to his tongue, his mouth is currently too full of leather to voice them. He settles for a dry look— _Yes, your majesty, please allow me to caper for your pleasure_ —and shuffles over to Dimitri. He’s all too aware of his nakedness, of Claude sitting before them as though lounging on a throne, and he struggles between the delicious feeling of being the only one on display and the fact that the faster he does this, the sooner he’ll see Dimitri fucked into the mattress.

Or the floor.

 _Maybe the table_ , he thinks, smiling a little at the thought of the dishes crashing about on the rug, and raises his hands to open the collar of Dimitri’s shirt. Dimitri rolls his shoulders a little, tries to sit up straight, and Felix decides Dimitri has enough tailors not to mind and rips the shirt open the rest of the way. Dimitri makes a sound of distress as a button goes rolling under the tea table, and Felix rolls his eyes.

Dimitri hasn’t softened much since the war, not with Felix dragging him out to the training yards whenever the guards get tired of falling back under his blade. He isn’t lean and flexible like Felix, exactly, but he’s deceptively fast, brutally strong, with power under the coiled muscle of his arms. Felix runs his hands over Dimitri’s forearms, sliding over a scar Felix gave him when they were children, sparring with swords they weren’t supposed to have, a starburst of an arrow wound—

His fingers ghost over the scar on his shoulder. Not that one. Not even now, years gone. He catches Dimitri looking and drops his gaze, frowning as he navigates the tricky and decidedly _un_ -sexy business of taking off one’s shoes and trousers while kneeling. They manage it between the two of them, and Felix isn’t surprised to see that Dimitri’s harder than he is, just from kneeling. 

There are teeth marks in Dimitri’s collar, but the hell with it, it suits him anyways. Felix takes the collar out of his mouth and presses a kiss to Dimitri’s neck. He tilts his head to look at Claude, and Claude just props an ankle on his knee and places his hands behind his head, perfectly content. Felix hums against Dimitri’s throat and slides the collar around his neck, and Dimitri’s breath hitches as it latches on.

“We are going to have so much fun together,” Claude says, and Felix sits back on his heels as Claude rises from the chair. He stands between them, unbuttoned collar just brushing the side of his jaw, and sinks his fingers into the base of Felix’s braid. His hand clenches, lifts, and Felix rises off his knees with a hiss of pain.

While Felix breathes hard into Claude’s thigh, Claude plays with the ring of Dimitri’s collar, and hooks his fingers through it with an almost reverent air. He lifts the ring slightly, and Dimitri straightens.

“Up we go,” Claude says. He keeps his fingers in the ring as Dimitri stands, and draws him closer with a gentle tug. “Follow me, your majesty.”

Dimitri walks sedately at Claude’s heels, all his attention drawn to Claude’s fingers at his collar, while Felix half crawls, half shuffles on his knees, dragged inexorably further by Claude’s grip in his hair. His braid is a mess, ragged and falling apart over his bare shoulders and face, and when Claude releases him to grip him by the neck and push him towards the bed, Felix has to hunch over himself to catch his breath. In this moment, he’s fairly sure he’s never been so hard in his _life._

“Dimitri,” Claude says, planting his feet on either side of Felix’s thighs. He starts undoing the buttons on his shirt, shaking out the cuffs, and the line of his jaw from this angle is unfairly attractive. “Fetch us oil while I see to Felix. And a leash, if you would. I know you have at least one.”

Felix can’t see Dimitri make for the dresser at the side of the bed, because he’s too busy staring at the taut muscle of Claude’s arms and chest as he peels off his shirt. Felix is practically under him, so close he has to hunch not to be pressed directly to the bulge of Claude’s trousers, and Claude looks down at him from under his lashes with a knowing smile. 

“I want you on your back, Felix,” he says, tilting his head back so that his lips brush over the fabric. He shivers. “Hands around those helpful bars on the headboard. If you move, you can stay in the sitting room while I fuck your king for you. Understood?”

Felix takes a breath. “Yes.”

Claude doesn’t step back to give Felix space, and he certainly doesn’t respond to his pointed glare, so Felix has to press his body against Claude’s as he rises to the bed. Dimitri is kneeling at Claude’s side, patient and still with his gaze cast downward, and Felix drags himself over the sheets and wraps his fingers around the bars carved into the headboard before he remembers, with a sudden jolt of horror.

“Wait,” he says. “Stop.”

Claude freezes in the act of clipping a fine leather leash to Dimitri’s collar. It falls over Dimitri’s chest, and Claude lifts a knee to the bed, half climbing onto it. “What’s wrong?”

“The… cat,” Felix says. Claude blinks. “Our cat. In the dresser. Top drawer.”

“Why do you keep a _cat_ in your—you know what, no, I have like, twelve. I get it.” Claude climbs back down and turns to the dresser. He lets out a cry of delight when Felix’s cat looks up at him, blinking slowly. “She seems fine here.”

“She watches,” Felix says. Dimitri suppresses a laugh. “It’s… awkward.”

“She did try to protect you, once,” Dimitri adds. Felix groans. He’s not exactly in the mood to hold Claude’s bleeding hand over the sink tonight.

“I see. Oh, you’re beautiful, aren’t you?” Claude practically coos, lifting Felix’s cat— _Felix’s_ cat, who bites _Dimitri_ when he feeds her—in his arms. She purrs low and bumps his chin with her nose. “Ooh, I bet you’re a real troublemaker, aren’t you? Yes, you are.”

He carries her like a baby to the door, where he spills her out of his arms like a puddle of liquid fur. She flaps her ears and stalks off, probably for the curtains, and Claude laughs to himself before he gently closes the bedroom door. When he turns, there’s an edge to his smile, something wicked that makes Felix clench his fingers around the bars.

“Now that we’re alone,” Claude says. “Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we?”

***

The cat was an unexpected delay, but Claude is nothing if not gifted at dealing with surprises. And there is something so sweet, really, about Felix and Dimitri having a pet cat. That sleeps in Felix’s _shirt drawer._ The domesticity of such a normal thing makes him think that Faerghus, and Fodlan, is going to be just fine. You can’t help but trust a king who lets a cat sleep in his dresser. 

“So, any other cute, fuzzy creatures with a voyeur streak I should know about?” He climbs on the bed again, drawing Dimitri in by pulling on the leash so he can kiss him. “Or is that just you, your majesty?” 

Dimitri huffs a laugh against his mouth; Felix scowls a bit, as ever defensive of Dimitri’s reputation. It reminds Claude of that fierce loyalty he noticed earlier, and he gently pushes Dimitri back to smile down at Felix’s haughty, pretty face. 

“You care about him so much, don’t you?” Claude asks, reaching out to trace his fingers over Felix’s mouth. “All you want is to protect him. Keep him safe.” 

Felix just stares at him, breathing hard, still holding onto the headboard as Claude instructed. 

“I like it,” Claude assures him. He leans in and kisses Felix, takes his time about it and when he pulls back, he gives his throat a gentle squeeze. “Loyalty is something I find very attractive. Almost as pretty as the both of you, naked and so eager for it.” 

Felix’s breathing goes immediately shallow and too-fast when Claude puts his hand around his neck. “I know what you want,” Claude says, stroking his face with his other hand. “I’m going to make sure you get it. Your king on top of you, making you feel good, roughing you up so you can’t do anything but lay there and take it. You’ll look so pretty when you come beneath the both of us. That’s where you want to be, isn’t it?” 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Felix moans, heartfelt. 

“That was a question,” says Claude, stroking the side of his face. “I expect you to answer those, when I ask them.” 

Felix’s face is flushed, and he has to swallow a few times before he gasps out, “Yeah,” and then, “Fuck you, _yes_.” 

“Felix,” Dimitri manages, sounding both amused and horrified and also aroused. “Perhaps you shouldn’t -- the crude language --” 

Felix actually rolls his eyes. “He likes it,” he challenges, even though he can’t quite look at Claude when he says it, staring at nothing over Claude’s shoulder. 

He’s not so hard to figure out, not really. Claude takes his chin, gently brings his gaze to his own. “Is that a question? If so, ask me nicely and I’ll answer it.” 

Felix almost growls, pulling at the headboard -- but he doesn’t move, and he tips his head back a little like he’s maybe showing his throat and Claude’s cock throbs in his pants. “Do you -- do you like it.” 

Almost. It’s good enough. Claude leans in, presses his mouth to Felix’s ear and says, “I’ll show you how much I like it.” Then he bites gently at the shell of Felix’s ear, pulls back, and smacks him across the face just to hear that lovely, beautiful moan of his. “Now, be good and let me see to your king.” 

He turns to Dimitri with a smile. “Dimitri. Come here, brace yourself over him. Remember what I said about stopping, yes?” 

“I remember,” Dimitri says, as Claude draws him in and kisses him again. 

“Gods, look at you,” Claude says, and then he lets himself _touch,_ running his hands over Dimitri’s shoulders and back. “You sure you want to be king, Dimitri? I could take you home with me. You and Felix. Keep you both naked and collared on either side of my throne. Dimitri, you’re … gorgeous. Beautiful. Look at you, how _much_ of you there is.” Claude strokes his hands down Dimitri’s chest, the firm muscles and the scars that only add to his wild, untamed beauty. “I could lend you out, would you like that? Let you serve me by _wrecking_ anyone who I told you to fuck into next week?” 

Dimitri’s breathing as fast as Felix, because of course he’d like that, the idea of being used to serve at Claude’s pleasure. 

“No,” Felix hisses, because of course he would _not._

“I didn’t ask you, pretty thing,” Claude says, not looking at him. “I know what gets your king all worked up. Look at his cock and tell me I’m wrong.” 

Dimitri’s head tilts and he stares at Claude, lost in the fantasy, and he looks primal and wild, so hot that Claude almost can’t believe he gets to fuck him. “You should know how to do this, Felix. Trust me when I tell you that you’ll like the results.” He pulls Dimitri in and kisses him, and Dimitri kisses him back with enthusiasm. 

Claude spends some time just touching Dimitri’s gorgeous body, kissing at his neck and murmuring, “I’m going to make sure you treat Felix like he wants, all right? Climb on top of him for me.” 

Dimitri is half-gone already, under enough that all he does is make a soft sound of need as he shifts and moves that big body of his so he’s above Felix. They are gorgeous together, staring at each other, and Claude really would like to bring them both home with him. Have them tangle together on a luxurious bed of Almyran silk pillows, have Hilda on his lap while they watched them fuck, maybe with Marianne kneeling with her face between Hilda’s splayed thighs, bringing her off while they watched. 

Ah, that visit to Almyra might have to be a bit longer than Claude initially planned it to be. 

“Kiss him,” Claude says. “I want to see it.” 

Dimitri leans down and kisses Felix, his hair falling in his face, and just watching is enough to get Claude rubbing a hand over his cock to take the edge off. He finds the oil and shifts behind Dimitri, letting them kiss and then curling his fingers around the leash and tugging. “All right, that’s enough. You two are lovely, really. Dimitri, do you like having him like this, for you?” 

“I -- yes,” Dimitri says, voice caught. “Of course. Felix, I--” 

Claude gives a sharp tug on the leash. “He wants you to show him. Make him feel like you earned his submission. He doesn’t give it easily, and you had to work for it, didn’t you? Years. I remember you two, back in school.” He chuckles. “All that posturing. The glaring. We had bets in my house on if you two fucked and when.” 

“Hmph,” says Felix. 

“I did,” Dimitri says, turning his head slightly. “Work for it. He’s worth it.” 

“Shut _up,_ ” Felix hisses. 

“Then show him, hmm?” Claude gets himself situated behind Dimitri, running his hands up and down his sides, his muscular back. “Ah. I would like to ride you like a wyvern, Dimitri. Next time.” 

He gets the oil and slicks up his fingers, reaching between Dimitri’s muscular thighs to stroke over his balls and his cock. Dimitri shudders, kissing Felix, then stopping as if he’s not sure if he should kiss Claude instead. It makes Claude smile. “Keep touching him, Dimitri. Put your hand around his throat.” 

“I, ah,” says Dimitri. 

Claude gives a tug to the leash. “Did you not understand my instructions?” 

“I -- yes, I understood them.” Dimitri is as stubborn as Felix in his own way, isn’t he? 

This is quite the challenge. Claude gives his ass a slight smack, not hard but enough to get his attention. “I’m not going to let you hurt him past what he wants, Dimitri. Stop me if this is too much, but if it’s not, trust me and put your hand around your throat.” 

He watches as Dimitri reaches out and gently puts his hand around Felix’s throat. With anyone else it might not even matter, considering the collar -- but Dimitri’s hand is big enough, and his strength is great enough that the collar Felix wears won’t be much of a deterrent. 

“Good, that’s good, Dimitri. Felix, do you like it? Tell him you like it.” 

“I -- I like it,” Felix says, voice husky. 

Claude is almost impressed that he admitted it that easily. He strokes gently between Dimitri’s legs, watching this with a pleased smile. As much as he wants to fuck Dimitri -- and oh, does he -- there is something so satisfying about this, watching the way Dimitri allows himself to give his submissive what he needs. 

“Tighten your hand. Choke him. I’ll tell you when to stop,” Claude says, watching, and he’s so turned on by this he’s forgoing his own pleasure just to make Dimitri Blaiddyd choke Felix Fraldarius and honestly, it’s completely worth it. 

Dimitri does it, and Claude is nearly dizzy with it, the thought he just made the _King of Fodlan_ choke his collared submissive, and this is probably going to make him unbearable to be around, he’s going to bring it up all the time. 

_Hilda, remember that time I made the king of another country choke a duke in bed?_

Dimitri chokes Felix with the gentlest touch ever, and Claude gives a pleased little _hmm_ sound and says, “Can you tell he likes it? Look how much he’s writhing around for you, he wants this so much. He’s not afraid of you, Dimitri.” 

“I know,” Dimitri says, voice low. He gives a little squeeze of his fingers and Felix arches beneath him, making a sound of pure want and grabbing harder at the headboard. Dimitri makes a hungry noise and leans down to kiss him, and Claude watches them for a nice long moment as he gets himself situated behind Dimitri to fuck him. 

Claude takes his time with it, running his hands up and down Dimitri’s broad, scarred, muscular back and his firm ass. He’s gorgeous, responsive, and when Claude gives his ass a smack, Dimitri shudders beneath him and gives a gasping little moan that is _maybe_ one of the top ten hottest things Claude’s ever heard in his life. So hot that he does it again, rubbing his hand over the skin. 

“Are you ready to take my cock, your majesty?” 

“I -- yes,” Dimitri moans, fingers grasping at the bedding, and he’s practically writhing on his hands and knees which is a damn nice sight. Claude’s cock throbs. 

As much as Claude wants to fuck him, he leans down and bites at the back of Dimitri’s neck, as best he can above the high, thick leather collar. “Beg me for it.” 

He can hear Felix make a huffing sound beneath them, and he peers over Dimitri’s broad shoulder. “Wait your turn, your grace. Let the kings talk.” 

Felix’s smile is more a quick baring of teeth -- it might not even be a smile at all, but it makes Claude laugh and kiss at the side of Dimitri’s neck. “Come on, your majesty. I know you want it, let me give it to you.” 

Dimitri is not as reticent as Felix. He half turns his head, tossing his hair out of his face and blinking his good eye up at Claude. It’s blown wide, and Dimitri is painting, soft puffs of air as he trembles beneath Claude. “Please,” he manages, and for all that it’s almost a growl in that deep voice of his, the words are perfectly respectful and heartfelt. “Fuck me, please, your majesty, I want it.” 

Ah, well, there’s no way Claude could say no to that, is there? He grabs Dimitri by the hair and kisses him, bites gently at his lower lip and says, “hold on,” and then presses his cock inside him. Dimitri is hot, burning up, and so tight that Claude throws his head back and moans, loudly. 

If he’s ever felt more like a king in his life, he doesn’t know when. 

***

“Look at you,” Claude says, as he pulls Dimitri back on his cock, one hand gripped tight on Dimitri’s hip. It’s hard to ignore the fondness in his tone—so often, in Dimitri’s imaginings, the doms of his distant fantasies are spectral, grim, impossible to please. But Claude seems pleased simply by Dimitri’s nature, by the way he sinks down on his elbows over Felix, by his stuttering, panting breaths, his back already beading with sweat. He’s so easy to serve, and something about that is almost terrifying. He can lose himself here, if he isn’t careful. In this moment, if Claude asked him to crawl back to Almyra with him, Dimitri isn’t certain he wouldn’t say yes.

Instead, Claude pulls him up by the collar, and Dimitri rises on his arms. Felix makes a soft sound beneath him, too faint to be a growl, and tries to arch his back to meet him again. He hasn’t seen Felix like this in some time. He’s usually so still, so controlled, but now he’s twisting his feet in the sheets, clenching and flexing his fingers around the bars, shoulders tense from the need to obey and not let go.

“The look on your face like this,” Claude says. He slams Dimitri forward, and Dimitri has to grit his teeth, thighs tensing as his cock throbs almost painfully. Claude leans over him, letting Dimitri support most of his weight, and grips Dimitri’s chin in a firm grip. “Already fucked out,” Claude says. He slides his fingers along Dimitri’s jaw, raked his nails down his back, then he’s driving him forward again. Dimitri lets his head drop. “Panting for it like you’ve never been fucked before. I’d like to see you with Felix, next time—Feel you push into him while I’m fucking you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Felix?”

Felix is still straining at the bars of the headboard. There are pink lines where the collar has pushed into his neck, and his hair fans out around him as the force of Claude fucking Dimitri rocks the bed. 

Felix makes a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh.

“Dimitri, put your hand on his neck again.”

Dimitri obeys, and Felix’s eyes roll back just at the touch. “Yes,” he says. 

With Dimitri’s hand on his neck, every thrust makes Dimitri push forward slightly, placing just the slightest pressure on Felix’s collar. Felix arches his back, raises his knees, and when Dimitri sinks down to kiss him, Claude drives down at such an angle that Dimitri lets out a truly wretched cry into Felix’s mouth.

“You could come like this, couldn’t you,” Claude says. He sounds breathless, his voice tight. “On your hands and knees, taking my cock. I’d like to see that. Come for me, Dimitri, I know you can. You’re so needy, so good for it, the way you feel—“

He pushes Dimitri further onto Felix with every thrust, and Dimitri is making helpless, broken sounds against Felix’s neck. His lips brush Felix’s collar, and all it takes is for his cock to slide over Felix’s stomach once for him to come between them both, sobbing out his release.

“Fuck,” Felix groans, pressed under them both with Dimitri’s head on his shoulder. “Fuck, Dimitri—“

“That’s no way to speak to a king,” Claude says. He’s still going, fucking Dimitri limp and boneless. “Gag him, your majesty.”

Dimitri rouses himself enough to slide two fingers in Felix’s mouth. He tries to take care not to go too deep, but he’s half drifting, riding out the waves of his own orgasm, and Felix rolls his tongue around his fingers like he’s—like he’s trying to—

“Take your pleasure on your king, Felix,” Claude orders.

Felix tries to speak around Dimitri’s fingers. It sounds like _Can’t fucking move,_ but Felix starts writhing under him anyways, using the strength of his arms to drag himself up Dimitri’s body, desperately grinding his cock along the mess Dimitri made of them both. Dimitri can feel his body tense before he comes, and Felix whips his head to the side, panting into Dimitri’s cheek. Claude whispers something, words too soft to understand, and when he comes, he fucks Dimitri through it, grinding his hips into Dimitri’s.

Dimitri half wants to lay there forever, lying fucked-out and lethargic between Felix and Claude, but Claude gently pushes his shoulder so that he rolls to his side, giving Felix room to breathe. Felix is taking great gasping breaths, his face still flushed red and his hair curling with sweat, and Claude climbs over him to ease his fingers free of the headboard. He rubs Felix’s sore fingers in his hands, kisses them, presses his lips to Felix’s palm. Felix just stares at him, silent and watchful, and almost smiles into it when Claude leans down to kiss him. They kiss gently, lazily, and Claude brushes Felix’s cheek with a thumb as he pulls away.

“You were so hot, Felix,” he says, and Felix does smile this time. He shrugs a shoulder, and Claude laughs. Claude keeps a hand in Felix’s hair as he turns to Dimitri, kissing him just as softly, with the same reverence he reserved for Felix.

“Let me get you cleaned up,” Claude says. “Do you have a washroom?”

“Baths,” Dimitri manages to say, somewhere in the pleasant, floating distance. “Still warm.”

“Scalding,” Felix drawls. Claude chuckles to himself and slides off the bed, drawing Dimitri with him.

Dimitri drifts. He can feel Claude’s hands on the collar, unlatching it, his fingers combing back Dimitri’s hair. The cool, slick floors of the bathroom. The sound of a tap running—the sulfurous heat of water piped in from the hot springs, filling the room with steam. Felix’s hiss of breath as Claude disrobes at last, beautiful and lithe and perfect. The sting of warm water on his skin.

“You should see the baths in Almyra,” Claude says. “You’ll be glad to hear you’re not the only ones with indoor plumbing. There’s a waterfall installed in the one for the king’s submissives, I think one of my great grandmothers had it made—you have so much hair, Felix.”

“Wouldn’t be a mess if you didn’t keep fucking with it,” Felix says. Dimitri opens his eyes. Felix is languid on the other side of the bath, treating Claude’s careful touches with the same air of resignation he reserves for when the cat starts kneading his chest. Still, he’s almost relaxed, so far under that he doesn’t even pretend to be perturbed.

“I’d like to see it,” Dimitri says. “Almyra.” He reaches behind his head, fumbling with the tie of his eyepatch.

“We can arrange that, you know,” Claude says. He half swims to Dimitri, then stops as he sees what Dimitri’s doing. “Are you… sure you want to…”

“Mm, well.” Dimitri shrugs. Claude is straddling his lap, one arm sliding around Dimitri’s shoulders. “Just don’t…”

“Say anything,” Felix says, and Dimitri casts him a grateful look. He pulls the patch loose, letting it drop behind him, and Claude examines his face for a moment. Then, silent for what feels like the first time, Claude touches Dimitri’s chin and kisses him, slow and deep, just as he likes it. Dimitri kisses him back, and revels in the touch of his hands in his hair.

“Felix, don’t be a blushing violet and come over here,” Claude says when he comes up for air. Felix makes a strangled sound of outrage. It takes a minute for him to obey, because of course it does, but it seems watching Claude sit in Dimitri’s lap and fawn over him is too much to take, because Felix eventually does cross the baths to join them. Claude stays where he is, held up by Dimitri’s arm around his waist, and looks at them both with such an air of fondness that Dimitri almost wishes he didn’t have to leave. That he could stay like this, idly playing with Dimitri’s hair and teasing out the thorns in Felix, slowly unwinding them both.

“Do you have submissives at home?” Dimitri asks, and Claude shrugs.

“Yes and no. There are plenty of people who don’t mind a night or two of fun, and I’m not one to turn that kind of thing down, but there’s no one you can say I would collar. Even if we don’t always collar people, there.”

“You collared Dimitri,” Felix says. His voice is soft for once, none of the hard edges he usually brings out for his own defense. Claude just smiles wryly. Dimitri thinks he knows what it means, this time.

“You needed this, too,” Dimitri says, and the look Claude gives him is sharp, wary. “I think.”

“You’re too much of a shit not to need it now and then,” Felix says, and Claude sloshes water over him with a foot. “I think you proved my point.”

“Takes one to know one, Felix.”

Felix almost looks pleased. “Yes. It does.”

Claude leans on Dimitri, tilting his head so that their temples just touch. “Alright. I concede to his grace, then. Don’t let it get to your head.” Felix snorts.

“Shame we can’t extend your stay,” Dimitri says. He can feel Claude smiling, and tilts his head back to his touch in his hair. “Though it likely wouldn’t be wise to extend peace talks for… personal reasons.”

“They’ll take forever anyways,” Claude says. He props his feet on Felix’s lap, laughs when they’re pushed off, and his voice falls low in Dimitri’s ear. “But I think I have an idea or two about that, if you’re amenable.”

***

The king of the unified nations of Fodlan arrives in the capital city of Almyra on the heels of a summer heat wave, just as rooftop gardens start to shed their withered leaves and fresh growth blooms over trellises and under the fogged glass of greenhouse roofs. Wyverns circle over the training grounds, and children call to miniature wyrms that seem to sway motionless in the breeze, and the horses of the Fodlan delegation huddle in the cool safety of the stables. And in his palace, where long white curtains shot through with gold flicker with the silhouette of a wyvern wheeling behind the high glass wall, King Khalid of Almyra leans back on his throne and props his hands behind his head.

King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd and his consort, Duke Felix Hugo Fraldarius, step forward in their thick, uncomfortable Fodlan regalia and bow before the Almyran throne.

King Khalid catches Dimitri’s eye and breaks into a slow, indulgent smile.

“Your majesty,” he says, with only the barest hint of a nod. “Your grace. Welcome to Almyra.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zoltan, Queen of The Rooms and Supreme Empress of Large Furless Cats, sits before the bedroom door and squints at the heavy wood. She has been thwarted again, as is usual when the Blond One and the One She Likes push her ungratefully into the living room and make the bed move. The bed, of course, does not belong to them, but to Zoltan, High Ruler of All Her Whiskers Touch, and it is the deepest insult that they should lie there without her. The One She Likes always pets her behind the ears the proper way, and doesn't _pat_ her like the Blond One, who feeds her and stares at her but has not yet groveled enough to be worthy of her affection. 
> 
> Zoltan swishes her tail as she stares at the door. There is a new large, furless cat in the other room. He was acceptable until he closed the door on her, and she knows now that he is likely a villain, here to hurt the One She Likes and steal the jingling ball she has hidden under the bed. When he returns, she will lie on her back and expose her belly to him, and when he falls for her trap (just as the Blond One has, too many times) she will flay him as is just and remind these furless creatures who is Queen.
> 
> Then they shall feed her.
> 
> The door doesn't open, not yet, but Zoltan has learned patience. She will wait. Soon, when the time is right, she will enact her terrible vengeance.
> 
> \------
> 
> And that's it for now! We do have a part two in the works, featuring Dimitri and Felix's diplomatic visit to Almyra, so keep an eye out for a new fic in the series!


End file.
